


The Sarah Blake Chronicles

by Dolimir



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolimir/pseuds/Dolimir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>What happens when a dream ends?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the Breeze Ends

**Author's Note:**

> _Set after All Hell Breaks Loose, Part One_

Never in a million years would you consider yourself precognizant. The necessary spices just aren’t in your DNA mix. But despite knowing this, you can’t help but wonder about the soft itch you’ve felt at the back of your neck all afternoon. It’s not fear. Okay, so it was for a few minutes, but you quickly realized that whatever was causing you to feel watched was not doing so with evil intent. It felt almost protective.

Before Sam, you would have dismissed it out of hand as your imagination. But you don’t have that luxury anymore. You understand, now, there is a reason people have feared the dark for centuries. Not that you’re afraid. You’re simply...cautious.

It’s strange how you divide your memories now. Before mom died. After mom died, but before Sam. Then simply, after Sam. One awkward date shouldn’t have affected you like this. You were in the man’s physical presence for less than a week and yet you felt the metaphorical click. You think perhaps he felt it too, because despite his having to be on the road, he emails you all the time. His emails are always long and filled with hundreds of details about his life, past and present, and you realize that by your simply believing him, in him, you have given him an outlet he’s never had before. You talk about everything, debate for the hell of it, mock fight. You send him goofy links from You Tube and he sends you silly drawings, comics of a sort, of his brother snarking at the things they hunt.

Your father has hinted on more than one occasion that you should start dating again, and while you smile and nod your head like you’re considering it, you know you won’t. You’re waiting for Sam, waiting for him to win his fight against evil and come back to you so that you can have a life together.

You come out of the bookstore with what you know is the raunchiest romance book you’ve ever heard about, because you’ve been toying with the idea of sending Sam a spicy email, guaranteed to melt his shorts. You’ve both been dipping your toe into the pool, testing, trying to see if the other will back away from the game that seems so dangerous, yet is really so harmless it’s laughable. Your old college roommate recommended the book and there’s a part of you that can’t believe you’re actually going to send an x-rated email, but there’s another part of you that’s quivering in anticipation. Sam’s too much of a gentleman to start it, but you never claimed to be a lady and one of you is going to have to step up to the plate sooner or later. And you’re tired of waiting. And this is research, damn it.

The feeling comes almost like a caress this time and your first thought is that Sam is standing behind you. You turn, your eyes searching the street, but you see no one. No one but a man in a leather jacket standing by the corner of the bar across the street. You turn and sigh, knowing if wishes were like horses...then stop. There’s something about that jacket.

You turn back and realize the figure is familiar, but you can’t place where you might know him. But as you stare you become aware of how broken the man is. You’re seen the hopelessness in the stance of street people who live in the bigger cities, but this is different. This is loss. Devastating. Overwhelming, world-destroying grief.

A truck roars by, impeding your view for a moment, and that’s when it hits you.

Dean.

Sam’s brother.

When the truck is gone, so is the man. With a lump in your throat that threatens to choke all breath from your body, you run across the street, heedless of traffic. You haven’t had to run in years, not since high school track. And man, wasn’t that a disaster? Your father isn’t allowed to mention it anymore, not even in passing. But you’re young and you’re motivated and you dig up every piece of strength you possess and run toward the corner, grateful that you’re wearing flats instead of your normal heels.

As you skitter on the gravel around the edge of the bar, you see the figure a half a block down, walking away at a normal gait.

“Dean!”

If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t have noticed the slight hesitation as the figure continued to walk. But you were, so you did. He doesn’t stop, and a part of you can’t say that you’re surprised by that fact.

Swearing under your breath, you run after him. He doesn’t stop nor does he speed up, but he somehow manages to make the left turn at the next corner look natural, like he’s not running, although you don’t doubt for a second that once he’s out of sight, he’s going to be picking up the pace.

You don’t know why it’s important, but you know that you can’t let him get away, that everything depends on your catching up with him. You turn the corner just as he’s turning another one. The chase continues for several minutes, until you realize he’s managed to trap himself in a dead-end alley, where the backs of several stores come together in a U shape.

There’s a part of you that expects him to look frantic, desperate to find a way out. Instead, he’s leaning against a loading dock, almost like he’s been waiting for you.

You stop in the mouth of the little alley, not sure how to proceed, wondering now if you’ve lost your mind. Your chest heaves as you desperately take in air, and you use the opportunity to study him for a moment, but he gives nothing away. Sam has talked about it in his emails before, how his brother can just close everything up. It frustrates him because he’s often caught on the outside, and yet Sam has admitted that he’s a little jealous of the ability.

“Sarah.”

You hope to God your jaw isn’t laying on the cement in front of you, ready to trip you if you decide to take another step forward, because you know he didn’t just give you a casual greeting like you haven’t been chasing his ass down several alleyways in broad daylight like some B-list female detective flick.

“Dean.” Because you can’t, for the life of you, think of anything else to say.

Now that he’s caught, he offers no explanation, and you have no idea how to proceed, so you stand staring at each other for several moments.

And then it hits you out of the blue, slaps you so hard that your vision actually blurs and you stagger trying to find your balance. He’s there in a second, hands holding your elbows, trying to keep you upright, but you’re not making it easy for him.

“No,” you tell him.

“Sarah--”

You slap away his hands, determined to walk back the way you came, but as you find yourself back at the entrance of the alley you can’t remember if you came in from the right or the left.

There’s a wall fairly close to the left, so you turn that way, using it for support and guidance because you can’t see through your tears.

“Sarah.” While your name is called out softly behind you, it sounds as if it was ripped unwillingly from his chest, like it left him bloody and a battered to have to speak at all.

The sob that escapes you seems to galvanize you both – you because you start to run and him because he’s chasing after you. And how’s that for irony?

He catches you easily and turns you, holding you to his chest, but you fight him with every ounce of strength you have left because you are not letting all your hopes and dreams die in a back alley off Fourth Avenue. You’re just not. You want to scream. God, you’ve never wanted anything more in your life. But you can’t manage anything more than a guttural moan that eviscerates you on levels you weren’t even aware you had.

Something wet hits the top of your nose, stilling you, because you know there isn’t any plane of existence where Dean Winchester should be sobbing your name like a frightened child. The fight goes out of you instantly, like it never existed, and you cling to him like you’ve never clung to anyone in your life, not even when your mother died. And you’re not sure at this point, who’s holding up whom or how either of you still have the will power to stand.

Time passes and the sky grows dark, and you know you really need to get him off the street. Taking his left hand and holding it over your heart, you stagger in the general direction of home. A part of you thinks he might balk, but he’s beyond broken and doesn’t have the will to fight anyone or anything, least of all you.

It takes you a lot longer than it should, but you eventually reach your little condo, which has always been close enough to your father for his comfort, but separate enough for yours. You fumble with the lock for several moments, dropping the keys at least twice. Dean makes no effort to help you, simply bending slightly when you bend, because you’ve yet to release the hand pressed to your chest.

When the door finally opens, you pull him into the dark front room and set him in your chair before you go back to close the door and make your way into the kitchen. Coffee, you think with a single mindedness which will be frightening once you look back on this moment, but right now it’s the only thing keeping you together.

Of course, once the coffee is percolating, you realize that neither of you will be able to drink it without causing yourselves physical harm.

You look up to check on him and find him exactly where you left him. You move in front of the chair and sit on the matching ottoman, a set Sam had helped you pick from an online catalog. You had teased him with wanting something with pretty flowers and he did his best to convince you that there was nothing wrong with a good solid color. In the end, you picked a light gray because Sam had told you it was his favorite color, and you wanted at least one place he felt comfortable sitting. You told him though that all bets were off concerning the couch and he teased you about your girly ways for over a dozen emails.

Dean only raises his eyes after several minutes of your studying him, and in those first moments you realize he’s trying to figure out where he is and who you are. As much as you loved Sam, and you can admit now that you did, as much as you hoped for a future with him, with laughing children and a home with huge windows that would always let the light in, you know your loss is nothing compared to the man in front of you.

Sam was sometimes embarrassed that he was Dean’s reason for living. He had even admitted that when he was in college he rallied against that knowledge, but in the end he not only understood it, but reveled in the safety and warmth of it. He was also comforted by it because he knew he had an out. No matter what the yellow-eyed demon’s plans for him might be, he never doubted his big brother would find a way out for them both. Sam never doubted Dean nor his love. And you remember being just a little jealous, wishing you had someone like that in your life.

“He lov...he wan...”

You take Dean’s hand again and place it over your heart once again and nod as you fight back a fresh batch of tears, making you wonder, inanely, where in the world they could have all been previously stored.

Just knowing, knowing that Sam...

It hurts so bad and yet it frees you, knowing that your feelings were reciprocated, knowing you weren’t alone in your dreams.

“There was no one...” and his voice breaks, “else to...” He rubs his eyes with the back of his free hand, making him look four years old. “It’s not right.” He tries to take a deep breath, but can’t. “Should be more people...should be...”

There should be more people mourning Sam. There should be. But their life was not one that allowed attachments. What you had with Sam was a fluke and you both knew it. You treasured it because it shouldn’t have happened and yet it had.

After hitting the FBI’s radar, Sam was aware there would be no other chances, which seemed to make him appreciate you even more. Because you didn’t run. Because you still wanted him. Because you knew who he really was, despite what the world said.

A brief smile flits over your face as you remember Sam’s pouty email about not having made the Most Wanted List at the same time his brother had. And while he joked about it, you knew he was concerned about Dean being exposed. Sam had meant to walk by Dean through all fires and didn’t like the idea of being separated from him, even by something as stupid as paperwork.

Without saying a word, you stand, bringing Dean with you because you refuse to release his hand. As you lead him to your bedroom, you know he’s not even taking in the change of scenery.

Once you had dreamed of seeing Sam’s frame fill your doorway, his eyes full of laughter, but you realize now it was only a dream, one that would never be realized.

You make Dean sit on the bed, only releasing his hand so you can remove his boots. He looks so out of place on the floral patterned comforter, it would be funny in another place and time. If Sam…there’s be pictures…and you’d…

You gently push Dean onto his back, and he gives you no resistance. You lift his legs, then walk around your bed and remove your own shoes before you climb in next to him, wrapping your body around him, tucking your head against his shoulder, fidgeting until he reciprocates.

Neither of you speak. You just simply breathe in each other’s air.

The moment he falls asleep you hold him just a bit tighter and let the tears for your unrealized future fall quietly.

You will allow yourself this one evening of grief for what will never be. For your life, which is about to drastically change.

Because in the morning, you know you'll have work to do.

For you will not allow Sam’s brother to face the world alone.

No matter what is on the horizon, you will face it by Dean’s side.

And you will do it happily for Sam's sake.

Always for Sam.


	2. Standing Against the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sarah's serious when she said she wasn't going to let Dean ride off into the sunset alone, but nothing goes according to plan._

You’ve always considered yourself a patient person, but if Dean Winchester lets one more branch snap back in your face, you’re going to do something rash and completely unladylike.

Unladylike.

The thought makes you snicker, which puts you in a much better mood and has the added bonus of annoying him. You know what Dean’s doing. He’s ‘showing’ you that hunting is a tough gig. Since he’s been unsuccessful in his attempts to drive you away verbally or sneaking away in the middle of the night, he’s moving on to new tactics.

Looking back, it doesn’t seem like it’s been six weeks since he delivered the news of Sam’s death. So much has happened and you’ve spent so much time on your toes that you’ve barely had time to process everything that’s happened.

It had taken Dean two weeks to emerge from his grief. During that time, he moved like an automaton. He ate when directed, showered when he was lead to the bathroom, and slept. He never uttered a single word the entire fortnight.

You think that some part of him expected to wither and die, and, if you’re completely honest with yourself, a part of you thought he might. Your father and mother had been married for thirty years when your mother passed away. And while your father’s grief was a horrible sight to behold, it paled as superficial compared to Dean’s grief for his brother.

A small part of you wonders if you should feel bad about using those two weeks against him, but you know you’d never be here, trailing his ungrateful ass through the wilderness, if you hadn’t.

While he was recuperating, you consolidated your bills, your assets, basically your life. You composed a letter to your father, which Theresa, a friend since grade school, agreed to give him after you left. You knew you’d never be able to leave, let alone explain your decision to follow this man, if you had to do it face to face.

By the time Dean finally returned to the land of the living, you had consolidated your life down to your largest suitcase and your laptop.

You had put your time to good use by making several sets of keys for the Impala and by reading his father’s journal front to back. You even went so far as to plant three different GPS units on his car.

When he finally tried to make his goodbyes, you calmly explained your intention to accompany him. He laughed hollowly at first, until he realized you weren’t joking, then, as expected, he was furious. Even now, looking back on that encounter, you blush. You had always considered yourself fairly worldly, but boy howdy does that boy know how to cuss.

Because of who you were to Sam, he forced himself to calm down and took the time to explain to you, in little words, why your plan was full of, errr, well, holes. When you weren’t swayed by his argument, semi-logical as it might have been, he told you in no uncertain terms why you were an idiot.

When you told him that your decision stood, he tried to leave, not understanding that your things were already in the trunk of his car. You simply followed him out, used your key to open the passenger side door and took your place beside him.

The look of sacrilege that passed over his face will never stop being funny, yet you will never, ever laugh about it with him anywhere in your vicinity. Ever.

The first night he deserted you in a motel he had chosen after he told you he couldn’t drive any longer. He even went so far as to steal back what he thought was the only set of keys you had, and drove three states before he stopped. You called in a favor and paid two hundred dollars to a friend’s little brother to drive after him.

When you reached the motel Dean was staying at, you put your bags in the trunk, then curled up in the backseat in a sleeping bag you bought at an army surplus store. Dean almost drove off the road when you stretched and yawned the following morning, simply reinforcing your decision to stick with him. After all, if he hadn’t noticed you sleeping in the back seat, he had no business being out on his own. Right?

He left you three more times and found two of the three trackers before he stopped trying to ditch you.

He spent a week refusing to talk to you and you knew better than to attempt any sort of conversation with him. You simply followed him wherever he went.

On the fifth night of the silent week, when he stopped for the evening, you took out a set of Sam’s knives, found a secluded spot behind the hotel and practiced throwing them.

To say you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn would actually have been giving you a little credit. But you persisted, throwing them over and over and over again, even though you wanted nothing more than to go back to the room and sleep. When you actually got a knife to stick in the tree you’d been using for target practice, you may have done a little dance. You won’t admit it, of course, without photographic proof, but that one hit in a hundred had managed to boost your rapidly sagging confidence.

You had decided to end the night on a high note and gathered the knives before you went back to the room. Dean had continued to ignore you, but you’d been okay with his maintaining the status quo. You had seen him sharpen knives five or six times already, so you pulled out a whetstone and mimicked his routine.

It had dawned on you that you couldn’t remember the last time you’d actually spoken more than two sentences to anyone and wondered if you were even capable of doing it anymore.

When you were done, you put the knives away, got your clothes and cried in the shower. You were tired, lonely and every muscle in your body ached. You wanted your father to give you a hug, to eat a pound of chocolate and to have a good night’s sleep in the bed you had Theresa sell, although not necessarily in that order.

While you loved Sam, you had only kissed him for that one glorious ten minute period. You never even had a chance to have phone sex with him, let alone actual sex. So you did have to wonder why you were putting yourself through such misery for his brother.

And you had cried anew because you knew why. Because if you didn’t, you knew Dean would find a way to be with Sam, and you couldn’t live with that. So you dried your tears on the cheap motel towel, dried your body and vowed to do better.

The following morning, you couldn’t move your hands. You had the bizarre thought that it might be permanent, but you didn’t let it slow you down; at least, not until breakfast.

Sam once told you in an email that hot breakfasts on the road was a rarity. Because Dean liked to sleep in late, it was usually just doughnuts and coffee in the car; however, sometimes, after a successful hunt they’d do a sit-down meal. You supposed because you weren’t technically on a hunt, Dean decided to take the time to eat at a diner. However, your hands had ached so badly you couldn’t hold your utensils correctly and you spent the next few humiliating minutes feeling like Dean’s special sister.

Breakfast had been arduous, and you ended up leaving half of it on your plate, even though you had been incredibly hungry.

When you looked up to see if Dean had even noticed your problem, you found him combing through the paper, looking for a gig, you supposed.

You’d taken to carrying a wallet; feeling like Dean wouldn’t tolerate the nuisance of a purse, even if you were paying your own way. As Sam told you several times, hunting was more of a vocation and not a paying gig. There was a definite reason Dean perpetuated credit card fraud and hustled pool or cards or darts. While you understood it, you couldn’t be a party to it.

Not that he ever offered to pay for anything, except the rooms, and you really hadn’t given him a choice on that front.

Throwing a ten on the table, you had gotten up and gone to the car. You didn’t want to rush him, you just needed a moment to compose yourself.

You pressed your hands flat against your thighs and breathed deeply, trying to push past the pain. You woke several minutes later when Dean opened the driver’s side door and threw a rubber ball into your lap. You looked at it dumbly for a few moments, then nodded once. Thanking him would only piss him off and, quite frankly, you weren’t sure you could talk.

He had been watching you after all, even if you never caught him at it. And though he resented your presence, he apparently couldn’t watch Sam’s girl suffer.

He drove, never telling you where he was heading. While it was disconcerting at first, you had chosen to look at it like a big adventure. You’d downloaded lots of things to your ipod and blackberry to keep yourself entertained, so you were rarely bored in the long stretches of silence.

When he had stopped for the night and gotten another room, you had gathered Sam’s knives again and gone outside looking for another secluded spot.

Surprisingly, you had nailed your target on the fourth throw. After doing your dance, you briefly wondered if you should quit while you were ahead, but decided arbitrarily that you needed to hit the target at least four more times.

You then proceeded to miss the target twenty times in a row. As you gathered the knives for the next round, you sang ‘fuck’ to _John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt_ because it amused you. You knew Sam would have been scandalized by that sort of behavior coming from you, or at least he would have pretended to be. You two had once spent a week playing bullshit via email and his responding emails to your lies and truths had been hysterical funny. You knew you could never shock him, not with everything he had experienced in his life, but he played the part of aghast church lady to the hilt.

Riding around the country with Dean had broken down even more of your walls, barriers that seemed so important just a few months before had no place in your life now. You were still a little bit awed by the fact that you actually passed wind in the Impala after a bowl of really bad chili. Dean hadn’t broken his no talking rule, but had to acknowledge your presence by rolling down the window. The memory still makes you blush and giggle.

Focusing back on the target, you had visualized your knife sticking out of it. As you had drawn your hand back over your shoulder, it was gripped from behind. You had gasped terrified, but Dean’s aftershave wafted around you as his other hand came to rest on your hip.

“You need to hold the blade, not the hilt.”

Your first thought had been that you were going to slice your fingers open, but you didn’t dare voice that concern. Instead, you had simply nodded and lowered your hand, once he released it, and switched the blade position.

“The weight of the hilt will help with the spin.”

You nodded again. He still stood behind you, but moved back a step to give you some room to maneuver.

“Keep your arm loose and don’t release the blade until your arm is fully extended.”

You threw the knife with all your might, but it bounced harmlessly off the tree.

Still, you had felt the difference.

“Shake your hand out before you try again.”

You had followed his instructions to the letter and managed to nail the target on your next throw. You missed the following two throws, but then stuck the last two.

Dean had spent the next half hour giving you pointers and you absorbed every word he spoke. When he indicated that he was finished, you followed him back to the room. He nodded his head toward the bathroom and you gathered your things, accepting his generous offer of first dibs.

You didn’t know what had prompted the tutoring session, but you knew better than to believe things had changed. He still wasn’t happy about your presence, but he had apparently accepted it to a certain extent, although you knew he’d help you pack your bag and drive you home if you even hinted at being done with the whole hunting gig.

But still, a little part of you had been warmed by his help.

The next day he had driven you to a library.

“According to the newspaper, two children have gone missing in the local woods. We need to find out if this is a one time occurrence or if it’s happened before.”

He nodded toward a chair in the microfiche center, then headed toward a bank of computers. You had spoken briefly with the reference librarian regarding their indexing system, then got to work.

It wasn’t until you had pulled up the first roll and read the banner of the paper that you even knew what state you were in, let alone what city.

The research had been dull and you had finally understood Sam’s comments about occasionally wanting to pluck out his eyeballs while in libraries. He always texted you the most bizarre messages while researching and you realized that he was attempting to stay awake and entertain himself at the same time.

Despite the hours of spooling through tapes, your research finally paid off. You had discovered that every dozen years, anywhere from four to six kids disappeared in the woods. Law officials never found any bodies and there had never been a survivor.

You had printed out the various articles dating back seventy years and wrote down everything you could think of about the missing children: names, sex, age, nationality, parents’ names, occupations, addresses, etc.

You thought you had noticed a pattern in the addresses and moved to the map section of the library.

All the children had lived on the edge of the woods that surrounded the town. The forest would have been their natural playground.

You had made a copy of the city map, then plotted the addresses and last known place the children had been seen. You then checked out the phone directories to find which parents were still in the area.

When you were done, you had sought out Dean and handed him your research, which he dutifully took and read. He had nodded as he followed your leaps of logic and that slight sign of approval had made you warm with happiness.

He handed you his stack of research and you had read the police reports of the two current missing kids. You didn’t ask how he managed to hack into a government agency from a public portal. Some things were and are better left unknown.

He had also pulled all the information he could find on a local myth that appeared to be a shambly sort of bogeyman.

Your stomach had growled so loudly at that point that a nearby librarian actually frowned at you, which had made Dean shoot you a silly grin. He nodded his head toward the door and you both walked to the diner across the street.

Experience had taught you not to order salads at small diners, so you ordered a hamburger with a fruit side, figuring if you were lucky you’d get some variety of melon. While you waited for the food, you went over Dean’s research while he read yours.

“Wendigos don’t typically go after children, do they?” you had asked.

“They’ll go after anything, but why settle for a Happy Meal when you could have steak?”

You had snorted, unexpectedly. The humor had been completely inappropriate, but it helped you, a little, to deal with the thought of the terror all those children must have gone through before they died.

A small smile had graced Dean’s face and for the first time in weeks you had been reminded of how handsome he actually was. You still preferred Sam’s boyish face and coltish limbs, but you wondered briefly what other women must have thought about your relationship with Dean. That thought led to the realization that he hadn’t picked up any women since your trek began.

Sam always made it sound like Dean was some sort of horndog, but you hadn’t seen any evidence of it yet, which pricked your curiosity, but you knew you’d never find the appropriate words to ask him about it so you remained silent.

“Any idea how to take this thing out?”

He had shrugged. “We’ll have to take flares, silver, salt, consecrated rounds, holy water and whatever else we can carry. It doesn’t sound like a spirit, but you can never be too sure.”

It hadn’t been until you were sitting in the parking lot of the motel that you’d realized he said ‘we.’

Which is how you find yourself tromping though the woods and being bitch slapped by every piece of flora in the area.

Dean had, of course, tried to get you to stay at the hotel, but he seemed rather resigned from the start that he wasn’t going to get his way. He then gave you the expected lecture of doing what he said, when he said it.

You’ve been nervous before big events in your life, but what you feel now can barely be quantified. You’re hyperaware of everything. Your brain goes into overdrive trying to identify every sound you hear, every movement in your peripheral vision.

You don’t speak, not even sure if you’re capable of speech at this point.

Even though you were with Sam while he hunted the spirit of the little girl haunting a painting, there is a tiny part of you that hopes this is all a big hoax, that there really isn’t any supernatural bogeyman that preys on children.

It shames you, this wanting to be able to look the other way, but you take comfort in the fact that Sam often railed against a destiny that had forced him into this sort of situation. But you also know if Sam hadn’t given up his dream of normal, a lot of people would never have had a chance to appreciate what they had in life.

You had hoped that by taking Sam’s place you might be able to prevent people from feeling the same ache you felt when you lost Sam or at the very least that you’d be able to keep Dean alive long enough to continue the work set forth by their father until he decides to call it a night and try his hand at something else.

It’s hard to hunt for something when you have no idea what it looks like. Dean had cautioned you not to stand in one place for too long, in case it turned out that the thing snatching the kids was a tree.

God, you hope he’s joking, but you suspect he’s not.

The only reason you finally notice the creature that blends in so well with the surrounding environment is because you’re lagging behind and you see its eyes track Dean as he moves past an old oak.

You’re unable to do anything more than gasp before it reaches out and touches Dean, who drops like a log.

Without thought, you shoot it with the shotgun, hoping either the consecrated iron or silver will harm it. The kickback of the rifle knocks you on your ass and you roll the second you hit the ground, knowing if the shots didn’t work you were in deep caca.

Looking up, you realize that, yep, it’s pissed. Grabbing your flare gun, you shoot it in the chest as it towers over you. Its’ scream is awful and while you know on a gut level it was _kill or be killed_ , you had never thought about the fact that you’d essentially be torturing the creatures you hunted by pumping their bodies with elements that would kill them.

With trembling hands, you eject the empty cartridge and load the gun with a new one. But there’s no need. The creature, whatever it was, is nothing more than a smoldering pile of steaming matter.

You crawl through the layer of fallen leaves that coat the forest floor to Dean’s side because you know your legs will never support your weight.

“Dean,” you sob. “Dean, wake up. Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare leave me, you bastard.”

But he doesn’t respond.

You check his neck for a pulse and find a thready one. If Sam were here, he’d throw Dean over his shoulder and head back to the car. You, however, don’t have the physical strength to pull off such a stunt and you know it.

So you wrap your arms around his upper body, supporting his head to your chest and weep while you rock him back and forth.

Yeah, Sarah Blake, mighty demon hunter.

You berate yourself for your arrogance at thinking you could keep this man alive.

But to lose him on your first hunt…it’s almost too much to bear.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive me. Please.”

“Sarah.”

“I’m sorry, Sam, so sorry.”

“Sarah.”

You look down and find Dean trying to focus on your face, but instead of feeling relieved you weep even harder. You continue to rock him until he gently touches your face.

“Sarah, I’m okay. I’m okay.”

He’s trying to be reassuring, but how can everything be okay when you almost killed the one person Sam loved more than anything?

After a time, you help support Dean as he sits up. You see him notice the ashes of the carcass sitting just a few feet away.

“It paralyzed me somehow,” he says as if he’s trying to work it all out in his head. “Probably with some sort of low grade neurotoxin.”

You nod, because you can’t think of anything else appropriate to do.

“How long ago did those kids disappear?”

“Four, five days.” Where you dragged that information from you have no idea.

“Then there’s a chance.”

“For what?”

“That the kids might still be alive.”

“What?”

“The kids, Sarah. We need to find them.”

You nod, humoring him, because, clearly, he’s lost his mind. How can he go from nearly dying to being a hero? No wonder Sam used to get so frustrated at his brother thinking he was invincible.

“Sarah! Sarah, I need you to focus, babe.”

You startle back to reality, aware of his hands on your face.

“Can you tell me what it looked like? The creature that touched me?”

“Like a tree.”

“Like the bark or the leaves?”

“The bark.”

You watch him scramble to his feet and look at the trees surrounding you.

“Birch or oak?”

“Oak.” Then you point to the tree where you first saw the creature.

Dean moves to the tree, thumping the branches. You’re surprised to hear how hollow it sounds, this living thing. One of the higher branches thuds with fullness, surprising you both.

“Sarah, my axe.”

You race for his pack, quickly removing the tool and climbing partially up the tree to hand it to him.

Instead of wailing on the tree like you expected, he carefully starts peeling away the layers. Your heart jumps to your throat when you see him expose a small hand.

Dean’s movements become more frantic.

“Test out the other limbs,” he tells you, intensely, fiercely, as if he’s gearing up to take on death itself.

You do as instructed until you find another limb that feels full. Using the least favorite of your knives, you follow Dean’s example. You sob when you uncover a foot. With trembling hands, you search for a pulse and find it, although it’s slower than Dean’s had been.

You peel back the bark, pinching your fingers as the wood fights to retain its’ treasure, embedding slivers deep into your fingers. But nothing is going to stop you from releasing this child. After everything you’ve been through today, you will give this child’s parents peace, one way or another.

As you push back the final piece of bark, Dean appears by your side and gently pulls the child out, then climbs down the tree with his precious burden.

Even though the paper said only two children were missing, you test every branch over an inch wide to confirm there are no other bodies filling the limbs.

As you climb down, Dean climbs up, pouring holy water and salt into every branch and opening. It may be your imagination, but you feel like you can see the tree shudder. The tree itself may not have been evil, but it was used for malicious purposes. You can’t help but wonder how many children had died silently in its limbs over the years.

You’re shocked by how badly you want to see it burn. But the children come first, and there’s no time to raze the tree and make sure it doesn’t bring down the entire forest with it. Whatever Dean is doing, you pray it’s enough.

You each pick up a child and head back for the Impala. You want to run, to get them to the hospital as quickly as possible, but you don’t. How ironic would it be to save the children, only to break your neck in a fall? Besides, you’re fairly convinced Dean is running on sheer will power as it is.

When you get to the car, he immediately starts spinning the story you’re going to tell the authorities. You were hiking, you heard one of the children whimpering. You found him stuffed in a tree. Always keep the truth as close to reality as you can, Sarah. You ran to the highway, flagged down a car which brought you to the hospital. He makes you repeat the story over and over again while he peppers you with questions until he’s satisfied you can pull it off.

He tells you to answer their questions as best you can, to use the identity he created for you last week and to slip out unnoticed as soon as you can. He’ll go to the hotel and gather everything, then meet you three blocks to the west of the hospital.

Everything goes according to plan. In the chaos of trying to revive the children, you are able to excuse yourself to the bathroom and just keep on walking. Twenty minutes later, you’re in the Impala and driving south.

Dean drives three towns over. Exhaustion is seeping from every one of his pores. You lay your hand on his arm, then go to the office and register as Mr. and Mrs. George Harrison.

You tap softly on the driver’s side window and flash him all five fingers. One thing you’ve learned by traveling with Dean is to always get rooms on the back side of motels, if possible.

Instead of getting back into the car, you walk around the building and unlock the door to the room. When Dean pulls the Impala into the spot in front of the door, you move to the trunk and remove your suitcase and his bag.

He gives you a disgruntled look, but you thrust your chin toward the room, letting him know you aren’t going to put up with any of his macho posturing tonight.

You can tell that he’s running on fumes by the mere fact that he doesn’t argue with you or simply try to take his bag from your hands.

It amazes you how little the two of you talk, yet you seem to communicate all the time. The silences used to drive Sam nuts, and while you would enjoy a little more chatter, you can understand Dean’s head space.

When you get into the room, Dean is already in the shower. You put his duffel on the bed closest the door, the bed he always insists on sleeping in. You roll your suitcase to the foot of your bed, then go back out to the car for the first aid kit.

When you lock the car up, you go in and order a pizza large enough for dinner and breakfast.

It’s only when you sit on the bed that your fingers start to ache.

As you dab rubbing alcohol on your fingertips you fight back a fresh batch of tears.

Sam never sugarcoated the life he and Dean lived. You suppose his writing to you was his way of coping with the horror of their job, finding comfort in the fact that he wasn’t alone in the knowledge of what lurked in the shadows. But it was one thing to read about a brother who thought he was indestructible and nearly experiencing his death due to your own stupidity.

Your hands tremble as you pluck out the logs pretending to be splinters.

Who in the hell did you think you were kidding, trying to fill Sam’s shoes?

And this was just a malicious forest thing, not even a demon.

You’re nowhere near trained enough to stand by Dean’s side and your inexperience is going to get him killed. And just how are you going to explain that to Sam when you see him in the next world?

Oops, just isn’t going to cut it.

Dean comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, and you lay two twenties on top of the television. You raise an eyebrow, asking if he’s going to be able to stay awake long enough to pay for the food you’ve ordered and he gives you a nod, apparently refreshed a bit by the shower.

You gather your sleep clothes and escape into the sanctuary of the steam-filled bathroom.

Stepping into the shower, you wonder what the best way to leave Dean will be. Sam told you that Dean doesn’t do talks, but leaving a note seems rather cowardly.

And just where are you supposed to go, you wonder. How can you go back to your life, knowing he’s out here in the darkness fighting by himself? One tiny light against an army of darkness.

Dropping your chin to your chest, you let the rapidly cooling water pour down your neck and back.

You won’t leave.

You can’t.

You’ll just have to push yourself harder next time because you know there’s going to be a next time and probably in just a few days.

You turn off the water, but take your time drying off, giving yourself time to pull yourself together. You take your hair out of its braid, brush it, then braid it again.

You look in the mirror.

You are Sarah Blake.

While you may be a failed art student, you know that you can’t fail Sam.

You chose to force yourself into the life of man who didn’t want or need you. But, by God, you’re not going to give up.

You gather your things and practically fling the door open.

Dean’s eyes meet yours as you step out. He takes in your stance, your determination and you are shocked to see something akin to relief in his eyes.

Tossing your clothes on your bed, you take the unbitten slice of pizza from his hands, then flop back onto your own bed.

“Hey!”

“Pffft,” you respond.

“Bitch,” he says, a little like a welcome.

“Jerk,” you tell him with a smug smile.


	3. Microbursts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A part of you is shocked, feeling almost betrayed, while another part of you wonders what took him so long to try this tactic._

The good thing about shooting salt pellets is that you don’t have to be terribly accurate as, hopefully, one pellet in the spray will hit the hacked off spirit you’re aiming at, thus dissipating it for a few moments. The bad thing about shotguns is they have quite a kick to them and you know your shoulder is going to be a lovely shade of purple come morning.

It’s on your lips to suggest to Dean he speed up his excavation a bit, but you can see the dirt flying upward at an almost inhuman rate. Emily Glenns is doing everything in her power to keep you two from digging her up and Dean knows she’s not going to back off until her bones have been given a proper salt and burn. He doesn’t need you stating the obvious, so you bite your lips from the inside to keep from urging him unnecessarily.

You hear the shovel thunk the cover of the casket, but know better than to look down. Emily would, no doubt, use the opportunity to her advantage and the last thing Dean needs is for you to crush him by falling on his head.

The thought is no more completed when you find yourself having to shoot her again.

An inane part of you finds the whole firing of guns rather cathartic, although you’re too hyped up on adrenaline at the moment to really appreciate the release.

“Salt.”

Keeping an eye out for Emily, you toss Dean the container. As you listen to him spreading the granules, you ready the accelerant. When the container flies toward the mound of dirt beside you, you turn slightly and drop the gas can into his waiting hands.

Surprisingly, the last round must have done the trick because Emily doesn’t make any last ditch attempt to scare you off. Dean climbs out and both of you watch the inside of the casket burn, taking her bones with it.

You eye the houses in the distance, wondering how vigilant the neighborhood watch around here is. “Do we have time to fill it back up?”

Dean follows your line of sight. “Better not risk it.”

He gathers the containers and his shovel and tosses his head in the general direction of the car.

You head out, keeping an open eye for any sign of headlights. With Dean wanted by the FBI, run-ins with the police are no longer an option.

You hike across the cemetery, alert, yet enjoying the slight breeze.

Sam had, on more than one occasion, written to you about what the Impala meant to him and Dean. And as you make out its dark shape, an inkblot against the night, you can’t help but smile. The Impala has quickly become home for you as well, giving you a feeling of safety. You understand the emotion is an illusion as there are no ‘free bases’ in a world filled with supernatural beings and unforgiving federal agents, but it doesn’t negate the feeling.

The drive to the hotel is silent and you reflect on how much of your life is now spent in stillness. Not that you mind. The schmoozing with clients and potential antique buyers all seems so pointless now in comparison to stopping an angry ghost from preying on teenage boys out past ten on school nights on the fifteenth of every month.

Sam had once told you that Dean had stopped speaking after the death of his mother, although he had no idea how long his silence lasted as he was only an infant and his father’s journal never mentioned when Dean finally started backed up again. You witnessed this extreme self-protective behavior after Dean had delivered his message of Sam’s death. And while he isn’t totally silent now, he isn’t the same man you initially met, with his sly smile and mischievous smirk either.

Even with you by his side, he seems lost. There are days when you realize if it wasn’t for his vocation, he’d simply fade away.

When you reach the hotel, you nod Dean toward the bathroom. After all, he was the one who did all the dirty work. He nods in acknowledgment, grabs a fresh pair of boxers and heads for the shower.

As soon as you hear the water start, you slip off your shirt and finger the bruise already blossoming on your right shoulder. You flinch every time you touch it, but there’s something fascinating about the pain and you can’t seem to stop prodding it.

It’s not until you hear the water stop that you realize you’ve lost a bit of time. You quickly put your shirt back on, then move to your suitcase to get your nightwear. When Dean comes out of the bathroom, you slide in. You’re still trying to get used to showering at night instead of the morning, and there’s a part of you that still worries that he’s going to try to ditch you while you’re in the shower. You suppose he could do it now, except you saw the exhaustion in his eyes and he’s more likely to fall into bed than make a dash for the border.

In the morning, you awake to warm fingers lightly probing the bruise on your shoulder. Frowning, you swat at them and try to sink back into sleep, but they return with a cream that soothes the ache you weren’t even aware of until that moment.

Opening one eye, you peer upward. Dean opens his mouth to speak, but you lay a finger over his lips, silencing the reoccurring theme of _you shouldn’t be here_ before it starts. He frowns, but you ignore his protestations as you have every day since the journey began. He complies, but you can see the stubbornness in his face set and know you’re due for another round of _‘make Sarah go home.’_ Knowing sleep is now just a dream, you get up and start your day.

You find yourself wrestling with a low grade anxiety as the day progresses, wondering what form of attack Dean’s going to use this time. During the first few weeks of your travels with him, he left you behind every chance he got. He then tried not talking to you until he realized you didn’t mind the silence. Then there was the day he tried blasting you out with music, but you had been prepared and simply put in a set of earplugs. He’s tried reasoning with you. He’s tried making you homesick. Lord knows what next on his agenda.

The answer comes soon enough.

That night when you stop at a hotel, he goes out almost immediately. Your first thought is that he’s trying to ditch you again, but his duffel bag is stashed at the end of his bed and you know for a fact that he hasn’t found the last GPS unit you planted on the Impala.

You order a pizza and while you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast you find yourself too nervous to eat.

At ten, you get ready for bed and make a laughable attempt at sleep.

At one, Dean comes stumbling into the room.

And he’s not alone.

He makes no attempt to turn on the light. He just moves his conquest toward the bed.

A part of you is shocked, feeling almost betrayed, while another part of you wonders what took him so long to try this tactic. While the disrespect stings, you almost laugh in relief.

“Is there someone here with us?” the squeaky female voice asks between kisses.

“Yeah. You mind?” he asks.

A hand thumps the bedside table and the lamp flickers on. You make the snap decision not to pretend to be asleep and so make eye contact with the bleach blonde squinting over at you.

“Hey.”

Dean makes no attempt to look in your direction. Instead he concentrates on her neck as his right hand runs up and down her body.

“Hey back,” you say with no small measure of amusement.

She grins drunkenly. “You don’t mind if we…you know?”

“Not at all. Mind if I watch?” You can’t believe your boldness, but you get the satisfaction of seeing Dean’s hand hesitate in its exploration of her body. Both of you have placed your bets on the table and now it’s time to see who’s bluffing and who isn’t. It’s a game, but it’s one you can’t afford to lose.

“Whatever floats your boat, sugar.”

She gives you a wink, then turns toward Dean, her lips finding his, even as her hand moves to his crotch like a magnet.

Dean’s hands travel to her breasts and you have to give the boy points for determination. The blonde moans, letting us both know how much she appreciates what he’s doing, while she starts scrabbling for his belt.

They’re going to do it.

Dear God, they really are.

He wants to raise the stakes?

Fine.

Reaching toward the bottom of the bed, you snag the pizza box and make a big production of hauling it to your side and pulling out a slice. While your mouth is dry, you still take a big bite and chew until you’re sure you can swallow it without gagging. The thought occurs to you that you might have officially gone around the bend this time, but what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound.

You got to give the boy credit, even drunk off his ass, he’s got some good moves. The blonde thinks so too, because her hands are in his pants making every attempt to push them off his hips.

He’s panting now and you will admit to feeling a little flushed yourself.

The blonde changes tactics and decides to pull him over while she falls back onto the mattress, essentially forcing him to be on top. As soon as he braces himself over her, she starts pushing the back of his jeans over his butt.

And in that moment, Dean makes his mistake. He looks over at you.

You grin and flick your fingers at him, encouraging him to continue what he’s doing.

God love him, he actually gives the blonde an open-mouth kiss so filthy that she becomes frantic for his touch and actually manages to get his jeans far enough down his legs to do the deed; however, when she reaches for his underwear, he shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers.

“Yes, baby,” she croons encouragingly. “Please.”

“No.”

“Ignore her, sugar. You can do it.” The blonde makes another attempt to relieve him of the last barrier, but Dean rolls off her. He pulls up his jeans as he stands, not making eye contact with either of you.

The blonde whimpers, thunks the back of her head against the mattress and sighs. She looks over at you, giving you a pathetic look. “I don’t suppose you’d--”

You shake your head no, not sure if she was asking you to leave or to finish her off.

Doesn’t matter.

You won this round. And more importantly, Dean knows it.

Not looking at you, Dean holds out his hand to the blonde and helps her to her feet. Once she’s straightened her clothes, they both leave.

Your appetite returns with a bang and you spend the next few minutes finishing your pizza slice, trying desperately not to giggle.

As you pull a second piece from the box, Dean returns. Alone.

He looks at you and shakes his head in what you hope is grudging respect.

Raising an eyebrow, you offer him the slice you just removed from the box.

He takes it from you, then sits on his bed and looks toward the bathroom as he chews.

You can’t help it; the giggle you’ve tried so valiantly to rein in finally escapes your throat.

He gives you a long suffering sigh, which makes you lose what little control you had tried to maintain for his sake. Tears run down your face and you find yourself holding your stomach, gasping for breath. When you can finally focus on him again, he’s smiling ruefully at you.

“I really hate you,” he says in a voice that belays his lie.

“I know you do, babe. I know you do.”


	4. Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All your sacrificing, all those weeks of silence, and you’ve changed nothing. Dean will still find a way to die. All you’ve done is given him a legitimate reason for doing it._

You don’t want to sound cocky, but you think you might finally be getting the hang of this hunting thing. Not that you’re an expert by any stretch of the imagination, but you’re definitely feeling the patterns: browsing the papers to find a job, traveling, research, and, of course, the hunt itself.

You’ve finally conquered the shotgun kickbacks so you aren’t one huge mottled bruise anymore, and you’re pretty damn accurate with throwing knives – a skill that has saved your life on three separate occasions. Also, you’re more toned than you’ve ever been in your entire life. Theresa would die of envy if she could see you now.

Research is totally your bitch now, a job that Dean gladly lets you handle, even though you know he’s just as good at it as you are. Dean’s in charge of the weapons, the Impala and hustling. You’re in charge of research, making holy water, handling the more delicate witnesses and laundry. And you contend that laundry is much more dangerous than cleaning weapons.

You’ve even gotten so good at spotting potential jobs through the media that Dean has given you more than one prop.

But your biggest accomplishment to date may be the fact that you no longer cry in the shower after bad hunts. Nine months on the road and you’re starting to truly understand what Dean sees in the job. There’s something emotionally satisfying in knowing that people will live full lives because of what you do.

Bouts of homesickness come and go, but they no longer paralyze you. Your father still doesn’t understand what it is you’re doing and when you call home you still argue with him about your choices. Angry as he is with you, he still deposits fifteen hundred dollars in your bank account every three weeks. You’re not sure why that amount or why at that interval, but you love him for doing it.

You email him nearly everyday with insights about the people you meet and the goofy things you see. As far as your emails are concerned, you’re just on one big road trip. He doesn’t need to know that a hellhound almost chewed off a chunk of your leg or that wendigos light up like some sort of weird science project when you hit them with a flare.

Dean accepts your presence now. It’s been months since he’s tried to find a way to make you go home. He also talks more, imparting precious hunting information through stories and speculation.

Sam is still a tender subject for both of you, but he’ll occasionally tell you a story about their childhood. And while you know all the emails you and Sam sent to each other are on the computer, you also know that Dean hasn’t been able to bring himself to read them, although he hungrily soaks up anything you want to share about what you and Sam discussed.

Sometimes he’ll tell you the stories, just to see if Sam ever told you about them. You always take Sam’s side, which leads to a lot of good natured bickering, almost making you feel like Sam is simply away as opposed to dead.

Almost.

You want to tell Dean how much Sam appreciated him during the last six months of his life, that he no longer looked at Dean as the annoying big brother whose shadow he was desperate to escape. That he groaned at Dean’s jokes, not because they were bad, but because it was expected.

But Dean isn’t strong enough to hear that just yet and you’re not brave enough to make it an issue.

Dean has the sense of humor of a twelve year old, which, surprisingly, you find refreshing. He’s forever trying to make you giggle at inappropriate times and you’ve taken to retaliating whenever the mood strikes. There’s something about his laugh that makes your toes curl, but you don’t want to examine that too closely just yet.

During cons and investigations, Dean refers to you as his partner, his girlfriend, his sister or his wife, depending on the situation. You’ve learned to take your cues from him and vise-versa, and you have to admit that the two of you make a really good team.

In down times, Dean still goes to bars, you guess, to pick up women, but he no longer brings them back to the hotel room. You suppose you could pick up guys if you wanted, but you don’t. Meaningless affairs hold no attraction for you.

It’s not out of some misplaced loyalty to Sam. Hell, you and Sam never did anything more than kiss. And while you’re not a nun, you honestly don’t feel the need to go down this path just yet. You might someday. Just not now.

Occasionally, you’ll go to the bar with Dean for a beer, but more often than not you’ll just stay at whatever hotel the two of you are bunked down at and read or send emails.

You’ve taken to writing reviews of local hotels and restaurants you’ve stopped at during your travels. They bring in a tiny income, nothing to live off of or even buy a tank of gas, but you enjoy writing them. Heck, you’ve also been taking detailed notes of your cases and have made a few stabs at starting a novel. If nothing else, you want to get all your facts straight, just in case the FBI ever does catch up with you and Dean.

While you’ve never met Bobby Singer in person, you correspond with him almost daily and talk to him on a fairly regular basis. He’s got a killer sense of humor in writing and his dry wit on the phone always makes you snort inappropriately.

When Dean gets in a funk, Bobby tells you embarrassing stories about him so that you can poke Dean out of his moods. Bobby’s also given you quite a bit of insight into Dean and his relationship with Sam.

You’ve officially dubbed Bobby you’re fairy godfather. You once mailed him a wand you bought off eBay and he’s threatened to put you over his knee when the two of you finally meet. You think he’s kidding, but given that he’s a pretty tough hunter in his own right, you’re not sure that he won’t, so meeting him face to face can wait as far as you’re concerned.

So it’s Bobby you call when Dean doesn’t come back to the room for thirty-six hours.

“The Impala’s sitting out front, so I know he isn’t trying to ditch me again, and this little berg isn’t big enough for a police station. It’s just four guys working in shifts and I know for a fact that they don’t have him in custody. His clothes are here. God, you don’t think Hendrickson’s got him, do you?”

“Sarah.”

“I don’t want to be a nag, but he should have checked in by now. He’s gotten really good at doing that. I mean, if he’d just call me, I wouldn’t worry. You know?”

“Sarah!”

“What?”

“Yesterday was Sam’s birthday.”

And just like that, your legs give out on you and you find yourself sitting on the floor.

“Oh.” You’re not sure if you spoke the word out loud or not.

“Knowing Dean, he’s probably found a roadhouse, gotten stinking drunk, started a fight and is working his way through the local female population.”

You nod, feeling stupid because you know Bobby can’t see you, feeling stupid because you had forgotten.

Sam’s birthday.

God.

Tears burn tracks down your cheeks and the euphoria you’ve been feeling lately evaporates in between one breath and the next.

“The best thing to do is to just wait him out. He’ll come home eventually.”

“Okay.” You mouth the word because you have no breath for volume.

“Sarah?”

“Thanks, Bobby.” You thumb off your phone before he can reply.

You had been so caught up in the hunt you neglected to look for signs in Dean to see how he was feeling. This road trip was not supposed to be about hunting, exactly. It was supposed to be about making sure Dean took care of himself. Way to keep your eye on the ball, Blake.

Your first thought is to track him down, but you immediately nix that idea. Dean has very particular ideas about sharing his emotions, and the moon will plunge into the Atlantic before he talks about his grief with you of all people.

Sam had once speculated that Dean needed to take care of someone in order to survive. You had forced Dean into a position of having to care for you and while he grumbled and bitched, he did actually seem to thrive on it. But Sam also told you that the very position you’ve put Dean into would make it impossible for him to be weak in your eyes. So you’ve essentially hoisted yourself on your own petard when it comes to having Dean talk about his grief.

The walls of the motel room swiftly close around you and before you can put two thoughts together you find yourself standing in the middle of the parking lot.

Right now, you’d kill for a beer and there is what appears to be the local country and western bar across the two lane highway. You’re tempted to check it out, but the thought of some hick trying to cajole you into a dance is more than you can bear.

“Cool car.”

You turn around to find a woman in her late thirties standing on the other side of the Impala, running her hand over the roof and smiling at you. She’s dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt and a denim vest; and she’s attractive enough that you know she could have her choice of any man who frequented the bar across the way. She’d take them home, ride them hard, then kick them out afterwards, and they’d love her for it.

“Thanks,” you say offhandedly. You close your eyes for a moment, torn between going back into the room and trying to find a liquor store.

“How long have you had it?” the woman asks.

It takes you a moment to remember the cover story you and Dean have been using this week. “It’s my brother’s. He’s had it for ever.”

“I didn’t know Dean had a sister.”

The moment the woman utters Dean’s name, you know you’re in trouble. Your eyes snap toward her and you study her face. There’s a sneer waiting in the wings, but she’s somehow managing to hold it off.

She’s not a jilted lover. Of that you’re sure.

She’s not law enforcement. You’ve learned to get a pretty accurate read on cops and agents, even when they’re off duty.

She’s got the look of a hunter after prey, and the fact she’s looking at you like a cat anticipating a game of chase makes you pretty sure she’s not fighting on your side.

An email Sam sent you pops into your head. He had written what was essentially a comparative essay between a good vampire he knew and the one who had sworn to exterminate the entire Winchester line.

“Kate.” You’re horrified that her name slips so easily from your lips.

“So he’s talked about me, has he?”

“Actually, no.”

She snorts in disbelief.

You scan the rest of the parking lot, but you don’t see anyone else. Of course, as a vampire, she really doesn’t need any help taking you down.

Options scream through your head, but you discount them as fast as you come up with them. The motel won’t afford you more than a second of protection, and you can’t remember if vampires can cross salt lines or not, but you’re pretty sure she can. You briefly consider trying to get into the car, but chances are she’ll just rip a door off to get to you and won’t that just thrill Dean.

The silver knife you have at your back will cause her a bit of a sting, but unless you can somehow saw her head off while she’s flinching you’re pretty sure it’s not going to do you a lot of good.

“I don’t suppose my telling you that I’m having a really bad day would change anything, would it?” You throw it out there because, what they hell, you’re going to die anyway.

“No, not really.”

“How about the fact I haven’t seen Dean in almost two days?”

She considers that for a moment. “He left the car.”

“Yeah, he did.” You sigh. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. “I’m not really his sister, you know?”

“I know.”

“Or his girlfriend, wife or lover.”

“It doesn’t really matter for my purposes.”

“Yeah, I sort of figured.”

“You’re taking this better than I expected.”

“Would crying let me live any longer?”

“No. Not really.”

You shrug. “Well, there you go then.”

“You were crying earlier.”

“All part of the bad day I was telling you about.”

She looks around the parking lot. “You trying to stall?”

“Yes.”

“You think he’s going to rescue you?”

“No.”

“That’s rather fatalistic.”

“Or realistic.”

“You going to come quietly?”

You shake your head. “No, I really wasn’t planning on it.”

She starts to walk around the car and you make sure to stay opposite of her at all times. This goes on for a couple of minutes. She doesn’t seem overtly aggravated, probably because she knows you have nowhere to go. She finally smiles.

It’s the last thing you see.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

To say you are surprised by your ability to achieve consciousness, pain-filled as it may be, would be a bit of an understatement. You thought for sure you’d wake up dead, pardon the pun.

The smell of old hay wafts around you and tickles your nose. Cautiously, you open one eye to find yourself inside a decrepit ancient barn, sitting in a chair at the center of a shaft of bright light filled with dancing sunbeams. You try to scratch your nose, but quickly realize you’ve also been tied to a support post.

You take a moment to concentrate on your body, trying to determine if you’ve been injured anywhere. Berating yourself for cowardice, you force yourself to be honest. You’re trying to determine if you’ve been bitten or not. And while you’re pretty hungry, you don’t feel like a vampire. Of course, you don’t have anything to compare it to either.

Nothing on your neck spikes with pain when you roll it around, so hopefully you’re still human.

Something moves in the shadows, but you can’t determine its size because your heart is thumping loudly in your ears. The need to call out is almost overwhelming, but you manage to bite it back.

For reasons unknown to you, Kate has decided to let you live a bit longer. Truthfully, you’re not sure how you feel about that fact. Every moment alive is filled with the chance for rescue or escape. That being said, it’s also filled with the probability of a very painful death that you will, no doubt, be totally conscious for. Death might have been kinder.

Of course, kindness and vampires don’t walk hand-in-hand. Hello. Evil.

Why didn’t she kill you?

The answer makes you want to moan in despair.

Dean.

You’re bait.

Kate is counting on the fact you might mean something to Dean. If she had killed you outright, there would be nothing to keep him from hunting them down and slaughtering them one by one in the most painful ways imaginable.

Alive, she holds all the cards. She’s banking on his feeling some sort of responsibility for you. And you know he does. You made damn sure of that fact.

The need to weep is almost overwhelming, but you don’t. You’re not going to become “that” girl from the horror movies, the one that always dies first or second because she annoys the evil guys with her wailing.

You hear the sound again and pray it isn’t Dean.

But, of course, it is.

Sam told you once that while he believed in God, he also believed his Maker wasn’t particularly looking out for him and Dean. You completely understand his frustration.

You try to warn Dean, but your mouth doesn’t seem to be working, making you wonder how your mind can be so sharp if your body isn’t working. Kate must have drugged you with something that will allow you to feel all the pain she intends to inflect on you, but won’t let you escape. Bitch.

If you’re completely honest with yourself, and this close to your demise there really isn’t any point not to be, you will admit you were hoping Dean would arrive looking like an angry archangel, complete with flaming sword. Instead, he looks like ten miles of really bad road. You suspect Bobby was right and Dean was out being destructive. Taking his face and clothes into account, you’d have to say he was really throwing himself into the project.

How in the world did he find you? Especially given his condition? And more importantly, how can he not know this is a trap?

“You took your sweet time getting here.” Kate’s voice comes from somewhere behind you. “I was beginning to believe your friend here when she said she didn’t mean anything to you.”

For a split second, Dean’s eyes flash toward you, but his attention immediately goes back to the vampire. Dean never takes his eyes off the ball during a game, so you can’t help but wonder how bad he’s really feeling.

“Where’s Sam?” It sounds like Kate is moving closer to you, but you still can’t see her. “It can’t be a proper party without him.”

Dean laughs hollowly. “You best be pulling up a chair then because we’re going to have a hell of a wait.”

Kate stops beside you, and you watch her study him. “Don’t tell me he’s given up the family business?”

Dean shrugs and sneers. “Something like that.”

Kate’s nostrils flare and a cruel smile appears on her face. “Where’s Sam, Dean?”

“None of your business, bitch.”

Kate throws her head back and laughs in triumph. “And Daddy?”

Dean doesn’t rise to the bait, but the answer is written all over his face and Kate would have to be blind to miss it, which she’s not.

“Oh, this is just too perfect. Poor Dean. All by himself in the big bad world.”

A part of you wants to protest that he isn’t by himself, that he has you, but you know it’s not the same. Dean is essentially alone in a world of supernatural beings, who are practically waiting in line to have their chance at him. And you’re nothing more than…bait, a way to get past his defenses.

You struggle against the ropes binding your hands, but your arms feel so heavy you can barely move them. Still, your movements earn you a head jolting slap. You want to sing, victorious in your efforts to distract her from him, if only for a moment.

Looking up, your eyes connect with Dean’s. You shake your head, willing him to leave you, but he ignores you – as usual.

Kate starts to take another step toward Dean, but you manage to slide your foot in her path, causing her to trip.

Dean is on her in an instant.

The blows they trade make you realize that Dean’s definitely been going easy on you during your sparring sessions. Under other circumstances you might have laughed at the incredulousness you feel, but as vampire after vampire steps out of the shadows, the last thing you feel like doing is laughing.

You’ve always known there wasn’t a weapon made that Dean couldn’t wield with deadly accuracy, and you’ve seen him in enough bar fights to know he can hold his own against a group, but you never realized that when push came to shove he could became a lethal weapon.

Bull-legged Dean, who always seems to stalk instead of walk, moves with a flowing grace so innate as to become a moving work of art. There is no mercy in his movements, every strike is intended to maim or kill.

Two vampires are down in the space of five breaths. Kate looks at a hulking vampire, who was probably a longshoreman in another life. “Kill her.”

Dean shouts his denial and his movements become more frantic as he tries to get to you, losing his momentum. A smaller white male manages not only to block a strike, but to sink his teeth into Dean’s forearm as well. Dean grunts and punches the vampire in the face, which allows Kate to jump on Dean’s back.

Dean grabs her head by her hair and flips her over his shoulder and into the dirt.

The rest of the action is blocked by the behemoth sneering down at you and you realize this is it. You won’t be going out with a bang, but in a drugged out, paralyzed zombie state.

Cool.

You’d probably giggle, but your larynx is still frozen. Instead, you grin.

Your vampire, and isn’t it strange you’re claiming any sort of ownership, stops just in front of you, confused by your expression, no doubt expecting hysterics or pleading. You lift your foot a few millimeters and drop it onto the floor, bouncing the back of your heel in the dirt.

The vampire shakes his head and snorts in amusement, but his mirth dies when you bury the silver blade sticking out of the toe of your hiking boot into his shin.

Dean had gotten the boots for you just a month before, telling you that his friend Joshua was wanting someone to beta test them because enough women were beginning to hunt that he was thinking it would make good commercial sense to start carrying a variety of items suited just for women. You honestly didn’t think you’d ever get a chance to use them in a combat situation. Too bad you won’t be able to send Joshua feedback. _Dear Joshua, managed to sting a vampire. Died anyway._

The vampire howls in pain and backhands you so hard you’re surprised your head is still attached.

Inanely, you remember Theresa being something of a hurt/comfort junkie, getting all breathy during movies when the hero was getting the crap stomped out of them. You wish you’d have the opportunity to tell her that it wasn’t so fun being on the receiving end.

The second blow is more pounding in nature and you feel your spine protest as the giant strikes downward, hitting your face and chest.

Tears blur your vision and you’re suddenly very grateful for the fact you can’t speak, because you’re pretty sure if you could you’d be humiliating yourself right now by begging him to stop.

The vampire clenches his fist again as his fangs drop.

 _Goodbye Daddy_ , you send out mentally, hoping that someone will eventually find your body, if only to give him a little peace of mind.

A second later the vampire’s head disappears, but you barely have time to register that fact before his body comes crashing down onto yours. Air is forced from your lungs and you don’t have the strength to take the next breath. Your vision darkens and the slide into unconsciousness doesn’t hurt nearly as much as you thought it would.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

Waking up in pain is seriously not fun. However, as you slowly regain your facilities, you’re beginning to see the advantages, especially when you were expecting to be dead. Again.

Of course, waking up in the same place you passed out sucked out loud, as Dean would say.

The hay is still making you want to sneeze, but the strong beams of light that had illuminated the barn earlier are considerably more wane and you have no idea if it’s dusk or dawn.

A cricket sings forlornly somewhere close by, and you realize you’re pretty damn cold. Of course, it’s only May and you’re in Wisconsin, as opposed to say Arizona. Still. It sucks. Out loud.

You give your nose a hard rub before your brain picks up on the fact that you can move. You try to sit up, but your back convinces you that moving really isn’t one of your smarter ideas. Still, you know you can’t just lie in the barn waiting for Kate to finish you off.

Lifting your head and looking to the right, you find five headless bodies lying in shallow pools of blood. Your stomach heaves, but thankfully you don’t have anything in it to expel. Realistically, however, it’s going to be a long time before you’re going to feel the urge to eat red meat again.

Once you’re finally able to get your stomach under control, you try speaking. “Deeee,” you croak.

Silence is your only answer.

Turning your head to the left, you find him lying beside you, bloody and battered. A wail wells up from your soul and you whimper as you force yourself to crawl to his side.

“Nononononononononono. Dee, ple-ase.”

But he doesn’t acknowledge you in anyway.

You run your hands over his body, looking for a pulse while trying to avoid the huge gashes he has on his arms and round his neck and chest.

You’re ashamed to admit it, but the thought occurs to you he may have been turned, that your poking and prodding him is only going to make you his first meal in his new life. But you viciously squelch the thought. If Dean wants to eat you, then, by God, he can. It’s the least you can do for him, after getting him into this mess in the first place.

The heartbeat you find is incredibly slow, but present. Pulling back his eyelids produces no reaction, neither does poking one of his injuries.

Dean had to have known this whole setup was a trap, so chances are the Impala is somewhere close by. There wouldn’t have been any point in trying to hide it. The vampires knew he was coming.

Checking the front pocket of your jeans, you find your keys. You close your eyes, grateful something is going right for a change.

It takes you four tries to gain your feet and stay on them, but you finally manage it, even if you are hunched over like a ninety year old grandmother.

You push the barn door all the way open because you’re going to have to park the Impala right next to Dean if you’re going to have any chance of getting him in the car. That is, if you can find it.

Gritting your teeth, you push off the barn and totter down the weed-choked gravel path. You’ve gotten pretty banged up during previous hunts, but you don’t think you’ve honestly ever felt this badly before.

Suck it up, Blake, you tell yourself harshly. What you’re feeling is nothing compared to what Dean has gone through and he saved your ungrateful ass, so quite being a whiny bitch.

The dressing down doesn’t really make you want to stop whining, but it does make you more determined to push forward.

You find the car around the first bed and cross yourself in thanks. As you slide behind the wheel, it dawns on you that this is the first time you’ve ever driven Dean’s car. You wish you could smile at the thought, but you can’t.

It takes you mere seconds to return to Dean’s side, although the trip to the car probably took you twenty minutes. You pull the car so close to his prone form that you worry about running him over, but you know you probably only have one shot at getting him in the car as your own strength is rapidly dissipating.

You stumble out of the car and lean heavily on it as you make your way around to the passenger side back door. Opening it, you wonder if you’re going to be able to pull off this rescue, but you ruthlessly quash your doubt. Neither of you are going to die in this damn barn. God may not be going out of his way to help you, but no way is he going to hinder you. No way.

Kneeling beside Dean, you focus for a moment on his unmarred, yet dirty face. Asleep, he looks so innocent. Asleep, he sort of reminds you of Sam in the fact that his face is much more open. You know Dean had to have been a cute child, although Sam told you he was probably never technically a kid.

You snort. As much fun as this reflection is, it isn’t getting him into the car. You brush your lips over his forehead and say a quick prayer before you mentally start gearing yourself up for the task before you.

Pulling him into a sitting position, you quickly discover you have to brace his back with your legs as his unconscious body appears boneless. You grit your teeth together, take a deep breath and let it out slowly. You squat behind him, inhale again, then wrap your arms around his chest and stand. His weight throws you forward and you cry out as you barely keep yourself from falling on top of him. The good news is that almost everything above his hips is in the car.

You try to push him forward, but nothing happens. The only way to get him completely inside is going to be to run around to the other side and pull on his arms. You stand slowly to make sure he doesn’t slide backward. When he doesn’t, you find yourself pressing your hand in the center of his back, like that’s somehow going to keep him glued into place. Stupid, really, but you never know.

As carefully as you can, you step away from him, then stumble around the back of the car. You open the driver’s side back door as gently as you can. Once you’re kneeling on the back seat, you wrap your hands around his armpits and pull. He moves, although not as much as you had hoped. Leaning backward, you scream as you yank, and damn near weep as his body slides over the backseat. You make sure all his limbs are inside the car before you close the doors.

Everything outside is pitch black, so it must have been dusk earlier. As you drive to what appears to be a main road, you realize you don’t have a clue which direction to go. You know the town you were staying in had a county hospital, but you have no idea how far the vampires took you. Probably not too far. They wanted to make sure Dean would be able to find them. Of course that doesn’t help you choose what direction to go.

“Fuuuuuhhhh!”

Making a spur of the moment decision, you turn left, then berate yourself for using the damn turn signal. So many reasons not to use it and no good reason to do it.

Habit, you suppose.

Your first time driving the Impala and you had every intention of breaking the sound barrier. Dean would have a conniption. But screw him. He had no business walking directly into a trap. Some damn demon hunter he was.

You see lights in the distance and wipe your eyes with the back of your wrists, hoping to clear your watery vision. The town slowly appears and you ease off the gas, nearly singing Hallelujah when you spot a blue square hospital sign attached to a metal pole beside the road.

Pulling beside the emergency room doors, you slam the gear into park and lurch from the car.

As soon as you get through the doors, you start yelling.

“Hellll me. Plea-se. Hellllllp me.”

An orderly appears, seemingly out of thin air. His arms go gently around you, but you shake him off.

“My bro-- My…Dean. Ple-ase.”

You pull on his arm and, thankfully, he follows you.

“Dear God,” he whispers after you pull open the door.

“Ani..minal. Ple-ase.”

He runs back to the doorway. “I need a gurney and a trauma team. Stat!”

Seconds later, a swarm of people emerge from the building and remove Dean from the backseat. Everyone’s shouting, but you can’t understand a word any of them are saying.

One second it’s chaos. The next it’s blessed silence.

Knowing the car will attract unwanted attention if you leave it here, you slowly climb back into the driver’s seat. You snort humorlessly when you realize you forgot to turn off the engine in the bedlam.

You find the visitor parking easily enough, and deliberately pull the keys out of the ignition and pocket them. Dean would skin you alive if someone stole the Impala because you left the keys in the car.

You rest your head against the back of the seat and close your eyes, overwhelmed by the last few hours.

Dean knowingly walked into hell for you. Not only did he walk into hell, but he did it after a two day drinking binge. However, if there was ever a time when it was the thought that counts, this would be it.

But on the heels of the awe you feel, comes anger, a fiery red fury that threatens to shred you to pieces.

You will admit when Sam wrote you, raging over the fact that Dean seemed more willing to die for him than lived for him, you thought he was overreacting. You truly thought it would be wonderful to have someone who cared that much about you.

But now, sitting where you are, you understand Sam’s despair. What makes it worse is that Dean is apparently willing to use you as an excuse to join Sam in the afterlife.

All your sacrificing, all those weeks of silence, and you’ve changed nothing. Dean will still find a way to die. All you’ve done is given him a legitimate reason for doing it.

The sob that wracks your body surprises you. Not only have you failed Sam, but you’ve done it in a rather spectacular fashion. Your vision blurs and your nose clogs and you weep like you did that day in the alley behind Fourth Avenue.

A tapping on the window startles you and you find the orderly who helped you earlier bending beside the car. Holding up one hand, silently asking you not to panic, he opens the door and squats beside you.

“Your brother is going to make it, ma’am. While he’s lost a lot of blood, the doctors say they’ll have him right as rain in no time at all.”

You nod to let him know you’ve heard him, although your body doesn’t appear to be willing to let go of its grief just yet.

“What do you say to coming inside and having the docs poke you a few times?”

You shake your head, knowing you aren’t seriously hurt, just wanting to sit here and have yourself a good cry before you try to figure out what in the hell you’re going to do with this mess you’ve created.

“Please, darling. For me. After all, I helped you out, right?”

You nod.

“You may not know this, but I have a patient quota I need to meet before the end of the month and I seriously need all the numbers I can get.”

You bark out a laugh because you know it has to be at least the third or perhaps the fourth of the month and he’s got a long time to work on his quota, if such a thing truly exists.

“And because I hoped you might be willing to help me out, I pulled out all the stops and brought this luxurious chair for your comfort.”

You frown at the wheelchair.

“Hey, don’t be that way. Econo class is a gurney.”

Your smile returns, his humor somehow keeping you connected to the here and now. But as much as you’re willing to move, you can’t seem to make your muscles comply.

“Oh, you’re going to go all diva on me, huh?” He stands, then bends down and gently lifts you from the car. “Man, what I do to get my numbers up,” he says with mock indignation. “My name’s Tom, by the way. I figure I should tell you that up front so your brother doesn’t feel the need to pound me for being fresh with you when he wakes up. Even now, he could probably whip me with one hand behind his back.”

You snort once, knowing it was probably true.

“Sarah,” you whisper.

“Hello, Sarah.” His smile softens as he puts you in the chair. “Let’s go give those lazy doctors something to do today. Okay?”

You list a little, unable to keep yourself upright. Tom leans the chair backward so only the back two wheels are on the ground. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t let you fall out.”

You want to tell him you’re not worried, but your vision is growing darker.

Tom is calling your name, but you can’t seem to make yourself answer, finding comfort in the darkness that tenderly envelopes you.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

Who knew waking up could be such an adventure? You blink your eyes open and quickly discover you’re in a hospital. While that realization comes with a certain wariness, it’s also rather comforting. You are, after all, waking up. Yet again.

You look over and find Dean lying in the bed beside you. It takes you a moment to realize he’s awake.

“Hey,” he greets softly.

You’re not sure what you give him is technically a smile, but it’s close enough to dance.

“How are you feeling?”

You shrug, momentarily looking up at the ceiling.

“That good, huh?”

“Could be worse.”

“True.”

Without looking at him, you ask, “I take it you aren’t a vampire?”

He snorts with amusement. “No. Docs say I have a pulse and everything.”

“Good to know.”

“Sarah.”

And you know, whatever it is he’s going to say, you don’t want to hear it. “How long?” you ask, hoping to divert him.

“Almost forty-eight hours.”

“When can we get out of here?”

You can practically hear his indecision. He wants to say something, but you also know he’d rather not. “I’ve just been waiting for you to wake up,” he finally admits.

You nod, then sit up, swinging your legs toward the wall as opposed to toward him.

“Sarah, don’t--”

You wave your hand toward him, cutting him off. Looking at the dresser sitting on the wall facing the end of your bed, you find your jeans, bra, shirt and the light jacket you had been wearing during this entire fiasco. Without worrying about modesty, you pull off the hospital gown and begin dressing, ignoring your bra because you know it would take too much effort to put it on. Instead, you stash it in your front left jean pocket when you find your wallet still in your front right pocket.

“I’ll go find a nurse and get them started on the check out procedure.”

“Sarah--”

Without looking at him, you leave the room.

You feel vaguely numb. It’s probably the drugs the hospital has you on, but you suspect that’s not the entire reason.

There’s a small hallway just before you get to the nurses’ station and you take it, finding a stairwell at the end of it. You take the stairs down, careful not to go too fast. Irony would be killing yourself in a hospital, but with the luck you’ve had lately you decide not to tempt fate.

Once you reach the bottom, you push the door open and find yourself outside. For a moment, you take time to enjoy the sunshine on your face, to breathe in the sweet flowers of spring.

“Sarah?”

You open your eyes to find Tom standing in front of you.

“Getting off shift?” you ask.

“Yes.” He pauses. “What are you doing out here?”

“Would you--” You clear your throat when you realize you’re really going to act on the vague notion you had rattling around your head. “Would you do me a favor, considering I raised your numbers for the month?”

He grins at you, and you surprise yourself by grinning back at him.

“Sure. Lay it on me.”

“What’s the closest bus station?”

“Probably Westby?”

“And the furthest that’s still not hard to get to?”

“Genoa.”

“For forty bucks, would you drive me to Genoa?”

“Are you okay, Sarah?”

“Yes.” You look him straight in the eyes and let him study your face, let him see that you can’t do this…this thing with Dean anymore. “Please.”

He nods, then gently wraps his arms around your shoulders and guides you to his car. A part of you want to tell him to knock off the treating you like crystal routine, but you can’t. You know you’ll start crying if you do and chances are he’ll just escort you right back into the hospital.

Tom doesn’t try to initiate discussion as he drives. It’s pretty damn obvious you’re running away. A half hour later, he’s pulling his Buick into the bus station.

You pull out your wallet to get the money, but he puts his hand over yours and shakes his head. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

You nod, even though it’s a lie.

Tom looks down at the mess in the seat between you and finds a piece of paper and a pen. He writes down a number and hands it to you. “If you need anything, anything at all, you call me.”

You start to shake your head, but he holds up his hand, stopping your protest. “I can’t even pretend to know what you’ve been through, Sarah. Just know you don’t have to be alone.”

“I thought good guys were supposed to wear white hats,” you say, touched by his kindness.

“White hat. White scrubs. It all works.”

Snorting, you grin at him, then get out of the car.

He opens his own door. “Do you want me to--”

You shake your head. “Thank you, Tom.”

“Take care of yourself, Sarah. And call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

You nod and give him a little wave as he finally drives off. Going inside the terminal, you find a bus leaving in ten minutes. You note the destinations just enough to know you’ll be headed west.

With the ticket purchased, you ensconce yourself on the bus. You pull off your jacket and use it as a pillow and fall asleep, not the least bit concerned about who might sit next to you.

Hours later, you awake just as the bus pulls into the parking lot of a little café.

“We’ll be stopping for forty-five minutes,” the driver voice booms from the overhead speaker. “Mattie’s has the best apple pie in a five hundred mile radius. I strongly urge you to give in to temptation. However, we will be leaving in exactly forty-five minutes. Come back in forty-six and you’ll find yourself waiting for the next bus.”

You hear people chuckling around you.

Stretching as you get off the bus, you notice the little town just off the highway. If you were writing for one of your travel magazines, you’d probably call it quaint. You can see a Best Western a quarter mile down the road and decide maybe a little break from the road would be a good thing. You definitely need some privacy in order to get your thoughts together.

You follow your fellow bus travelers into the café and order a hamburger, fries and a piece of apple pie. Dean always got a little weird about eating apple pie. Sometimes he’d eat it and sometimes he wouldn’t, depending on his mood. Sam told you all about Burkittsville so you never razzed Dean too much when he got finicky.

You take your time eating, just enjoying the stillness for a little while.

The bus driver moves to your side and touches you gently on the shoulder. “We’re getting ready to leave, miss.”

“I think…I think I’d like to stay a bit longer, if that’s okay.”

He looks at your face, then nods. “Let me see your ticket.”

Giving it to him, you watch as he writes several letters that mean nothing to you in their current sequence. “When you’re ready to hit the road again, you come here and give this to any bus driver. If they have the room, they’ll let you on.”

You know he’s just done something above and beyond the call of duty, but you’re not sure what, although you smile and thank him.

“You just take care of yourself, ma’am.”

You’re beginning to wonder if there’s something in your eyes that’s making everyone treat you with kit gloves, but don’t want to examine that thought too closely, just in case there is.

Once you’re done eating, you pay for your meal and give your waitress a generous tip. So generous apparently she feels compelled to drive you down to the hotel. You try to tell her it isn’t necessary, but she’s having none of it.

She marches you straight into the lobby and talks to a woman named Arlene. And while the neon sign outside says rooms cost $32.99, she gives you a room for twenty bucks on the nose. You try to protest again, but like your waitress, your words fall on deaf ears.

Taking your key, you walk into your room, head straight to the bathroom and turn on the lights.

Oh.

No wonder.

You have some rather spectacular bruises on your face, neck and what little bit of your chest you can see. Everyone must think you’re running away from an abusive husband. While a part of you is shamed by that thought, because Dean would rather die than harm you, another part is relieved. No one you’ve come across is going to be telling anyone anything about you. You wonder briefly if you’ve fallen into some sort of underground railroad for abused wives.

The mattress on the bed is a couple grades better than what you’re used to sleeping on. While Dean has found you some rather uniquely themed places to stay, few of their owners have worried themselves about the quality of sleep their patrons might get during their stays.

Even though you’re tired, you take several minutes to rinse out your shirt and pants, letting them air dry in the bathroom while the space heater runs.

You crawl into bed, with every intention of thinking about your situation, but drift off to sleep before you can form a coherent thought.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

You awake shouting Dean’s name, even though you can’t remember your dream. You don’t even have time to catch your breath before you have the realization that someone is sitting on the bed beside you. You try to lunge upwards, but hands catch your shoulders and push you back onto the bed.

You open your mouth to scream but a hand leaves your shoulder and covers you mouth.

“Sarah,” the shadow hisses.

All at once the fight leaves your body.

“What do you want, Dean?”

You can hear him opening and shutting his mouth, trying to form a sentence, but he’s too outraged to speak for several moments. “You don’t get to leave me,” he says finally.

“What?” Amazingly, that simple sentence pisses you off royally.

You sit up and reach for the bedside lamp, but he beats you to it. When the light flickers on, you can see his face, closed up as tight as it’s ever been.

“You should never have come on the road with me,” he tells you.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“But you did.”

“And I’m remedying that mistake now.”

“It’s too damn late.”

“Like hell it is.”

His green eyes flash angrily at you. “You could have left after your first hunt when that forest thing got me or when the black dog chewed on your leg or even when I brought that woman back to the room. But you don’t get to leave now.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I need you now!” he all but shouts at you.

Tears fill your eyes, but you’ll be damned if you let them fall. “Well, tough. I won’t be the honorable reason you use to commit suicide anymore, Dean. If you want to die, fine. But at least have the balls to be a man about it and go find yourself a hunt that’ll take you out of the game. God knows, there’s got to be a wendigo or shtriga willing to help you out. But you don’t get to die for me or because of me. Not anymore.”

Dean’s red rimmed eyes make the pale skin under his freckles seem even more ashen. “I don’t want to die, Sarah.”

“The hell you don’t,” you shout. “You walked into that barn without back up, without a plan, knowing it was a trap, knowing you were going to be outnumbered. You want to leave me. You want to be with Sam and all I’m doing is standing in your way. Well, I won’t stand in your way anymore, Dean, because I’d rather have you dead than use me as an excuse to die. Cause I can’t live with that. I just can’t.”

Despite your best efforts, the tears finally fall, stinging the bruises on your cheeks as they move down to your neck. But to your surprise, Dean wipes them away using the backs of his fingers.

“I…I don’t want to die anymore, Sarah,” he whispers.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Obviously.” The humor is barely there, but you hear it. “When I found the note on the windshield, all I could think was that I left you unprotected, that you were in danger because of me.”

“I don’t need you to look after me.”

“Yes, you do. Just like I need you to look after me.”

You look at him and blink, not sure you heard him correctly.

“I’m really fucked up, Sarah, and I feel like I’ve broken into a hundred different pieces, and the only reason I’m still together is because you keep picking them up and putting them back where they belong. You could have left when I wasn’t talking to you or when I was trying to make you homesick. I expected you to leave when we didn’t get to that little girl in Colorado in time. Everything I did, every time I pushed you, you just dug in your heels and got more stubborn. So you don’t get to leave now, Sarah. You just don’t.”

“You don’t get to throw your life away for me, Dean.”

“But that’s what partners do for each other.”

“We’re not partners.”

“The hell we’re not.”

“So you’re saying if I stay that I can throw my life away for you?”

“No,” he says in disgust. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“There’s not going to be any dying, Sarah.”

“None whatsoever?”

“None, except for the evil sons of bitches we come across.”

You hold your hand out. “Deal.”

He looks at your hand, then up into your eyes. His smile is wobbly as he shakes your hand, but it’s there, beautiful as the sun.

“Partners?” you ask.

“Yes. Partners.”

“So how did you find me?”

“Come on, Sarah, you’re not the only one who understands GPS units.”

When he finally releases your hand, you wipe your nose with the back of your wrist. “You know, Sam was wrong.”

“About what?” he asks, his own voice sounding rather choked.

“You can do chick flick moments.”

His eyes widen horrifically, then narrow. “Bitch, you are so going down.”

You squeal with laughter as he pins you to the bed. “I got the perfect skirt and blouse you can wear too, you jerk.”

When he doesn’t rear up, you wrap your arms around his neck and back and pull him to you. He holds you just as tight and you lose several minutes just being lost in the feeling of being safe, of being home. You’re both broken, both too messed up for polite society anymore, but you have each other to pick up the pieces and glue them back in place. And somewhere, you’d like to think, Sam is smiling down on both of you.


	5. The Calm After the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You stumble forward, toward where you think he was standing, screaming his name over and over again, because you can’t lose him now that you’ve finally accepted the fact you love him. Surely, God wouldn’t be so cruel as to take both Winchesters away from you._

It’s been a year since you and Dean became official partners. Three hundred and sixty-five days of snarking, arguing, laughing and fighting the good fight. Fifty-two weeks of not worrying about being left behind, of eluding the FBI and discovering the joys of hair bands. Twelve months of hunting thing and saving people and putting more miles on the Impala than you would’ve thought humanly possible.

You’re fitter than you’ve ever been in your entire life. The curves you once had have transformed into rock hard abs. Your favorite pair of jeans has been too big for you for nearly six months. Theresa’s fit to be tied, especially after you told her you don’t ration your chocolate intake anymore. Of course, you don’t tell her you sometimes worry about turning thirty and discovering it had all somehow attached itself to your ass overnight. Gotta score your points while you can.

You and the shotgun are now best friends, and Deans says you’re pretty damn deadly with knives too.

Although Dean has a fake credit card in his wallet, he hasn’t tried to use it in ages. Between the money your father sends, Dean’s hustling and the income from your writing, the two of you do okay. Sure there aren’t a lot of steak dinners, but you do have them occasionally, and you certainly aren’t starving.

While you’re never going to be as slick at creating a cover story on the spot as Dean is, you don’t do too badly. You’ve discovered there’s a certain freedom in losing yourself in a fictitious role. You’ve got the brainless bimbo girlfriend act down pat. In fact, you actually enjoy playing it because once you get going Dean can barely maintain a straight face.

Surprisingly, you find you enjoy playing bad cop to Dean’s sympathetic one or vice versa. You’ve both learned how to pick up on non-verbal cues from each other, to the point where you’re actually rather damn scary, if you do say so yourself. Bobby calls you Scully to Dean’s Mulder.

Thinking of Bobby always makes you smile. Over the last nineteen months, he’s become your mentor, your drill sergeant and your confidante, and you’ve yet to lay eyes on the man.

Six months ago, you finally got up the courage to ask him why that was. If you had asked any sooner, he probably wouldn’t have told you, but the ties you have with him now are forged pretty deep.

He tells you he doesn’t know for sure, but he suspects it has to do with the fact he was with Dean when Sam died, that he helped Dean kill the demon who’d been responsible for decimating the Winchester family, and because he was the one who made Dean salt and burn his brother’s body before he did something rash, like selling his soul to the highest bidder in exchange for Sam’s life.

You know Dean doesn’t hold a grudge against Bobby for being the voice of reason during his time of insanity as they talk all the time. For whatever reason though, he just can’t seem to make himself point the car that far north.

Your birthday falls a few weeks after your year anniversary and you’re surprised when Dean asks you what you want to do to celebrate.

You raise a curious eyebrow at him.

“Anything you want. The sky’s the limit.”

If you had to guess, you’d bet serious money he thinks you want to visit your father. But as much as you adore your father, you’re not ready to see the quiet despair in his eyes as he desperately tries to understand where he went wrong. He still refers to Dean as ‘that boy,’ despite the fact that Dean is thirty. And until he can accept the choices you’ve made, you know you can’t go home.

“I’d like to meet Bobby,” you say after some reflection.

The teasing grin falls from Dean’s face.

“It’d be nice to be able to put a face with the voice. You know?”

Dean’s face is carefully neutral, which somehow always makes his freckles stand out more.

“We don’t have to.” You back pedal quickly. “We could--”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

“Dean, we don’t--”

But he shakes his head. “I think…I think I’d like to do just that.”

You blink in surprise. “Really?”

“Really.”

You flash him your biggest grin and try not to bounce in happy anticipation, although you suspect you’ve failed miserably. He surprises you again by returning your smile.

For the next four days, you look for any sign that might indicate he’s changed his mind, but he gives you no reason to believe he’s regretting giving you this gift.

A mile from Bobby’s junkyard you make Dean stop the car because you’re too nervous to continue. Once the car’s in park, he turns in the seat to face you.

“What’s going on, Sarah?”

You wave your hands back and forth between the two of you, but you can’t make the words come.

“He’s going to love you.”

You want to believe him, but you can’t. This meeting is almost like a rite of passage and you’re still not sure you’re ready, not sure that Bobby will give his blessing for you to continue to ride with Dean. You worry that once you meet in person and he sees all your faults and imperfections, he’ll take Dean aside and tell him to lose you. You know it’s irrational, but that doesn’t make the jitters go away.

His green eyes search your face. “What’s this really about?”

“I sent him a fairy wand from eBay once and he threatened to put me over his knee when we met,” you wail.

Dean’s laughter fills the car as he drags you to his side and wraps his arms around you. “He’s going to love you as much as I do.” He presses a kiss into your hair.

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“He will.”

“Dean,” you whine. “What if he doesn’t?”

“You trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then trust me on this. Bobby will adore you or I’ll do the laundry for a week.”

“A month.”

“Hey, are you wanting him to like you or rooting against it?”

You laugh and try to tell yourself you’re being silly. Twisting in his arms, you look up at him. “Do I look okay?”

“Yes. Just wipe the booger off your nose and you’re golden.”

“Dean!” You smack him, but he just snickers as he puts the car in drive. His arm is still around your shoulders and he reaches his hand over and rubs your nose, laughing as you sputter indignantly.

When the Impala pulls into the salvage yard, you’re not surprised by the fact that you’re still a jittery mess. Under any other circumstances, Dean would be giving you a ration of crap, but it’s been a long time since he’s seen Bobby himself.

When the car stops, you get out and shut the door, but make no attempt to get any closer to the house. Dean leans against the car beside you and you immediately notice the pensive air about him, as if he’s also unsure of his welcome.

For whatever reason, seeing him nervous calms you. You suppose it’s because you know Bobby will welcome him with open arms and his anxiety is just silly, which, of course, makes you realize how foolish you’re being as well. Feeling mischievous, you casually reach upward and rub the bottom of his nose.

His reaction is predictably swift and the two of you end up tussling against the car and giggling like twelve year olds. Okay, you’re giggling and he’s chuckling evilly. His hips have you pinned against the Impala, but you’re holding both of his hands by the wrists and doing your best to keep them away from your face.

“Am I old enough to be witnessing this?” a familiar voice asks with mock aggravation.

Dean immediately straightens. When you release his hands, he turns to face his old friend. His back is ramrod straight, but you’ve learned that for Dean this is a sign of deep respect.

“Hey, Bobby.”

“Dean.”

You’ve always known that Dean has a special place in Bobby’s heart, but until you watched the older man drink in Dean’s features you never realized how firmly Bobby considered Dean family.

“It’s been a long time, son. A real long time.”

Dean nods. “Too long.”

You gently poke Dean in the back and that’s all the encouragement he needs. Both he and Bobby take two steps forward and wrap each other in a bear hug.

You take the opportunity to examine this stranger, who has become incredibly dear to you over the last nineteen months. Strangely enough, he looks exactly like you pictured him. In the beginning you thought he might look more scholarly, seeing as he speaks perfect Latin, but his twang always made you think of him more as a good ol’ boy than a college professor, even if he could shame the librarians at most metropolitan libraries with the width and breathe of his knowledge.

“Well, hell, boy. You never said anything about her being beautiful.”

You startle out of your reverie and find Bobby and Dean standing shoulder to shoulder, staring at you.

“Quit your flirting, Bobby,” Dean admonishes him. “She already spends too much time in the bathroom as it is.”

You sneer at Dean, the big fat liar. He spends just as much time on his hair as you do on yours, and you have a lot more of it than he does.

Bobby rolls his eyes at Dean, silently letting you know he knows the truth, then smiles as he holds out his hand for you to shake.

“Oh, hell, no.” You step forward and wrap your arms around him. “I want a hug too.”

Bobby has no problem reciprocating and you momentarily lose yourself in the warm safety of his arms.

“That t’weren’t no hug,” he says into your hair. “That was a manly greeting.”

You snicker as he releases you. “Of course it was.”

“Don’t get fresh, little girl. I still haven’t forgotten about my promise.”

Your grin grows because now that you’ve met Bobby Singer face to face, you know he’d never raise a hand to you. You have no doubt that under the right circumstances he can be lethal, but you can see kindness radiating from his eyes and an affection for you that makes you feel like you’ve come home.

Bobby turns and climbs the porch stairs. “You all come inside now. I have a roast in the oven.”

“A roast?” You wonder if Bobby’s opinion of you would drop if you started drooling. “You sure know your way to a girl’s heart,” you tease as you follow him.

“Naw. That’s what the brownies are for.”

You turn your head back toward Dean, a smart-aleck remark on your lips, but it fades when you notice the slight frown on his face. While his tone is light, there is something about his eyes that bother you.

“Hey, get your own damn sidekick,” he calls to the back of Bobby’s head.

Reaching back, you take his hand and give it a squeeze. “No matter how many times you call me that, I’m still not going to wear lycra.”

He snorts, his eyes lightening with laughter, then returns your squeeze before he lets go of your hand. “I keep telling you it’ll cut down on wind resistance.”

You pfft at him. “Dream on.”

“Oh, I do, sweetheart. I do.”

You elbow him in the stomach, which causes him to chuckle. He wraps his arms around your waist, picks you up and puts you behind him. “As far as the brownies go…” He braces himself in the doorway, refusing to let you into the house.

“Bobby, Dean’s picking on me!”

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

Dinner is everything you’d hoped it’d be. Life on the road means experiencing a lot of variation in the quality of meals, which makes you not only appreciate home cooked ones even more, but you’ve grown to appreciate the gift of time and effort they truly are, especially when prepared by crotchety confirmed bachelors.

Despite the fact you and Bobby have grown fairly close, you are content to sit back and let Dean take center stage. You know for a fact they’ve already shared some of the stories they’re currently exchanging, but there’s something infinitely more satisfying about watching a person’s facial expression and hand gestures when relating a yarn in person.

Besides, Dean is rarely this relaxed in any one else’s presence. Even during down times, he’s casually alert – the price of being tucked under his wing is that he never totally lets down his guard. He lost Sam by sending him into a diner for dinner and pie. He’s never going to make the mistake again. But seeing him like this, laughing and looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world makes you love Bobby Singer just a bit more.

You look down at Dean’s plate and note he hasn’t eaten any green beans, a direct violation of the bet he lost earlier in the month, in which he has to eat at least one serving of vegetables a day (and no, lettuce on hamburgers doesn’t count, no matter how much he tries to convince you otherwise). Green beans might be empty calories, but darn it, you won fair and square.

When he glances over at you, you raise an eyebrow and look at his plate. He gives you an ‘aw, mom’ look, as you like to call it, but you steel your gaze and remain firm. Welching on a bet means doubling it and he knows it.

He gives you a much put upon sigh, but reaches for the bowl.

Bobby raises a curious eyebrow, but you shake your head as you try to smother your smirk. No sense in antagonizing Dean unnecessarily.

After dinner, while Bobby wraps the leftovers and puts them in the fridge, you and Dean deal with the dirty dishes. You figure there’s be some good natured jostling to see who washes and who dries, but he surprises you by picking up an old terrycloth towel that had definitely seen better days.

Once the dishes are done, you take your brownie into the living room and settle on a dusty couch stacked with several piles of books on the far section. The evening conversation is companionable and you let it flow over you like warm water. You’re surprised by how good the brownie is, but find it a tad too rich for this late in the evening. The second time Dean eyes it, you hand it to him. He gives you a silly, but appreciative grin, then wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into the crook of his arm.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

“Sarah. Sarah.”

You blink your eyes open to find Dean squatting in front of you.

“Hey, sweetheart, let’s get you upstairs and into a real bed for a change.”

You smile at him and give him your hand. He easily pulls you to your feet and his arm goes around your waist as he guides you up the stairs.

“You can put her in the first bedroom, if you don’t mind the upstairs library.” Bobby’s voice is quiet, like a parent afraid their child will want to stay up another half hour if they get over-stimulated.

But for some reason, his kind words stop you in your tracks.

For the last nineteen months you’ve slept in the same room as Dean. Heck, a couple of times you’ve even slept in the same bed, when hotels only had a king or during investigations when your cover story warranted it, and once or twice when funds were tight.

You’ve long since gotten over your body shyness. Not that you flaunt yourself or anything, but you’re used to his being in constant close proximity. You’re not even sure if you’re capable of sleeping by yourself anymore. Lord knows, you can’t remember the last time you tried.

“Is something wrong?” Bobby’s gaze bounces back and forth between you.

“No.” You shake your head. “I’m sorry. I’m still a bit fuzzy brained.”

Dean guides you into the guest bedroom. “I’ll go get our gear.”

As you watch him leave, you realize you feel more naked than you have in a long time, which is ridiculous. After all, you are a grown woman; it’s not like you need a teddy bear or even a six foot demon hunter in order to sleep.

Dean jogs downstairs and Bobby gives you a good night nod and disappears into his own bedroom.

When Dean returns a few minutes later, he hesitates after setting your suitcase by the bed. You study his face, looking for any sign to indicate he’s feeling uneasy himself, but you find nothing but his normal, albeit tired face.

He gives you a small smile then heads for the door.

“Dean!” And wow, doesn’t that sound just the tiniest bit pathetic?

He turns back toward you and whatever you thought you were going to say just dies on your lips.

“Sleep tight.”

He nods, then disappears into the hallway.

You slip off your sneakers and your jeans and take off your bra without removing your shirt. Nestling into the blankets, you quickly discover that despite the bed being incredibly comfortable you can’t find the right position that will allow sleep to pull you under.

You stare at the ceiling and shake your head in disgust. Considering all the different beds you’ve slept in since you’ve started your road trip, it doesn’t make any sense that you can’t fall asleep now. You measure time by the water dripping from the bathroom sink and the grandfather clock ticking downstairs. But no matter how hard you try to relax, slumber just won’t come and you find yourself tossing and turning under the old, but beautiful, quilt Bobby put on the bed.

“This is ridiculous,” you whisper to yourself. “You’re a grown up for God’s sake. You’re probably sleeping in the safest house in the continental U.S.” And isn’t that the truth? Bobby’s told you about the wards and blessings he’s put up over the years and you’re pretty sure that Satan himself couldn’t breach the walls of the Singer home.

You give sleep one more try, but it’s useless.

You allow yourself one pouting whimper because you know Dean is going to tease you, but maybe if you tell him you’re willing to let the ‘something green’ rule go for the rest of the month, he’ll settle for just smirking at you.

Sighing, you sit on the edge of the bed and shake your head in resignation. There’s no point putting off the inevitable.

You make your way to the doorway and step into the hall, only to find yourself face to face with Dean, who’s dressed in nothing but his boxers and t-shirt.

“Hey,” you say, startled.

“Hey.”

You open your mouth, but are surprised to find the words just won’t come. You wave at him, encouraging him to speak, but his brows furl and he frowns at you.

Damn it, he’s going to make you say it.

But before you can actually say anything, he simply takes your hand and pulls you into your room.

“Dean?”

Instead of answering you, he climbs into the bed, then pulls you down beside him.

“Oh, thank God.” You cuddle against him, resting your cheek against his chest in the crook of his arm. His chin rests on the top of your head as he wraps his arms around you.

Closing your eyes, you finally give yourself over to sleep.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

The sun peeking through Bobby’s dusty blinds slowly brings you to wakefulness. The cool morning air nips at your nose, yet you feel toasty in your blanket. It’s not until Dean makes a soft indescribable noise behind you that you realize it’s not the blanket keeping your warm, but the press of his body against yours.

Since he’s behind you, you allow yourself a smirk. Dean is a closet snuggler. Every time you’ve ever shared a bed with him, you’ve woken with him wrapped around you. It would be so easy to tease him about this propensity, but you have to admit it’s a nice way to wake up in the morning; and while you don’t sleep in the same bed very often, you don’t not want to wake up like this. Yeah, figure that one out. Dean snuffles in your hair and his arm tightens around your waist, but when you feel his morning wood pressing gently against your rump, you nearly drown in a wave of desire.

Shame burns through you and it takes every ounce of self-control you possess not to leap from the bed.

This is not honoring Sam, you tell yourself harshly. Your job is to make sure Dean stays in one piece. You’re not going to...you’re just not...

No. There’s no way you’re even going to try to put this feeling into words.

You slide out of bed, careful not to wake Dean. Pulling on your jeans, you watch him intently, willing him to stay asleep. Normally, you can’t even open a hotel door to make the morning coffee run without him coming to some degree of consciousness. You can tell how safe he feels here, simply by the fact he doesn’t even stir when you leave the room.

You make your way downstairs, hoping for a few minutes to gather your thoughts, but instead you find Bobby in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

“Morning,” you say quietly.

He nods at you. “Sleep well?”

“Yes. Thank you.” A part of you wants to find an excuse to slip outside, to have a few minutes to sort through the myriad of thoughts careening between your ears, but you can’t bear the thought of being rude to Bobby, who has only ever shown you kindness. So you make the quick decision that your emotional breakdown will just have to wait. Clearing your throat you put on your best morning face. “Can I help with anything?”

“Naw. It’s just a one-butt kitchen. Coffee’s on the counter.”

You pour yourself a mug, before you take a seat at the table, far enough away not to be a nuisance, but close enough to talk if he wants. You park your brain in neutral as you watch Bobby lay several strips of bacon into an old cast iron skillet.

You wonder if it would be appropriate to talk to Bobby about what you’re feeling. After all, he’s always been a patient ear, with insights that often make him a better phone buddy than Theresa. You have a suspicion that if you were on the road right now, you’d be out buying coffee and dialing his number. Of course, if you were on the road, the feelings currently overwhelming you wouldn’t be an issue. So there you go.

He looks over at you and you smile inanely, feeling like an idiot for not being able to start a conversation with the man who probably knows every single one of your secrets as well as you do.

“Would you do me a favor?”

Startled, you look up, only to realize that Bobby isn’t even looking at you.

“Sure. Name it.”

“Could you turn your chair toward the stairs and keep an eye out for your boy.”

You frown at his phrasing, feeling like you’ve missed something important, but still comply with his request.

“Your phone’s ringing,” he says simply.

“What? I thought I left it upstairs. I’ll--”

“Sarah.”

His exasperation penetrates your sleepy brain and it dawns on you what he’s doing. Looking back on your relationship with him, you realize you’ve told him some pretty intimate things. Hell, he probably even knows when you’re cycling. He’s been your Father Confessor and best friend for quite a while now. You tell him things you wouldn’t dream of telling Theresa, and he’s realized there’s a certain freedom in sharing when you don’t have to look that person in the face. If possible, you think you might actually love him a little bit more for his insight.

Clearing your throat, you fidget in your chair before you speak. “Hey FGF, what’s shaking?”

He lightly whacks you on the back of the head.

“Ow!” Even though you’re trying really hard to sound affronted, you can’t stop the snicker that escapes you.

“I get the feelin’ you got sumthin’ on your mind.” You can hear the fork moving around the skillet.

You clear your throat, trying to find the courage to speak. “I do.” But that’s as much as you can bring yourself to say.

Bobby putters behind you and you desperately want to turn, but you know if you do this conversation will end – not because of him, but because of you. But how can you even begin to broach this subject?

“Bigger than a breadbox?”

You snort, amusement warring with mortification over your inability to just say what’s on your mind, a problem you’ve never had before with Bobby. “Yes.”

“Bigger than the Impala?”

“It feels that way.”

“I’m guessin’ it has to do with the boy.”

“You’re guessing right.”

“Perhaps it has somethin’ to do with where he slept last night?”

“No. Not really.”

He remains silent.

“He’s very respectful of my boundaries.”

“Seems to me,” he finally says, “maybe there aren’t a whole lot of boundaries between you two anymore.”

You nod, relieved that he isn’t sounding judgmental, just stating a fact. “You really can’t have too many boundaries on the road. I don’t even think about certain things anymore. I mean, if I have to pee, I can totally do it while he’s showering because I swear if I had to wait for him to finish, I’d wet myself more often than not. Dean totally lives for his showers.”

“And the sleeping together thing?”

And there it is. You start to turn, but his voice stops you. “Don’t.”

“It’s not what it appears. It’s just...I haven’t slept in a room by myself since this whole thing began. At first it was because I was worried he’d leave me behind again, but then it just made sense to save money and get one room with two beds.”

“You seemed pretty comfortable.”

He’s still not judging you, but he is guiding the conversation where you’re too chicken to go on your own. “Sometimes the motels we stay at only have one bed or our cover makes it necessary to share one. But I swear, Bobby, he’s never been anything but a gentleman.”

The bacon sizzles as he flips the individual pieces. You wonder if you should turn around, but you don’t.

“You love him.”

“Of course, I love him.” You laugh. “He’s like the really annoying big brother I never had.”

“No, Sarah. You’re in love with him.”

You want to shout your denial, to demand an apology from him for daring to say such a thing to you. But you can’t. You can’t. The truth stings, but more than that, the shame is almost too much to bear. Tears burn your eyes and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep them from falling. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“Sarah--”

“I never meant for it to happen. I swear, Bobby. I swear.”

“Sarah, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” Anger roils within you and you harshly wipe your eyes with your fingertips.

“Sarah, that boy loves you too.”

All the air leaves your lungs with a whoosh, leaving you breathless. “You don’t know that,” you whisper.

“The hell I don’t.” While his words are harsh, his voice remains soft. “Anyone with eyes in their head can see the way he looks at you.”

You digest that bit of information for a moment or two. “What am I going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Bobby,” you plead with him.

“I honestly don’t see a problem, Sarah.” He’s standing directly behind you.

“Sam,” you choke out.

A warm hand settles on your shoulder at your neck and he rubs the juncture ever so gently. “Sarah, Sam’s been dead for almost two years.”

Anger all but whites out your vision and you find yourself on your feet, facing Bobby, but your biting retort dies on your lips when you see the sorrow in his kind eyes. Dean wasn’t the only Winchester Bobby Singer loved. Traveling with Dean and your shared pain made you forget there are actually other people who loved Sam as well.

While you may help Dean face each day as it comes, Bobby risked his relationship with Dean and faced the lonely consequences to make sure the right thing was done so that Dean wouldn’t hare off and do something foolish. Acknowledging the fact he and Dean haven’t been in each other’s physical presence for nearly two years makes you temper your words.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Never said it was.” Bobby turns back toward the stove and his bacon.

“What do you suggest, Bobby?” you ask in a pleading tone. “You know Dean will never give up the hunt?”

Removing the last piece of bacon, Bobby turns, trying to mask his surprise. “Sam didn’t tell you,” he says more to himself than to you.

“Tell me what?”

He frowns, as if debating whether to tell you or not, but before you can open your mouth, he’s already made his decision. “Dean wanted to stop hunting after River Oak.”

You blink, unsure how to respond. No. Sam hadn’t said a word. But then again, he wouldn’t have. He had finally learned what his father had told Dean in the hospital. He had so many questions about his destiny there would have been no possible way he could have stopped.

But you know Dean. He would have wanted to take a deep breath and regroup. Sam had mentioned his frustration more than once that Dean, who had always been so gung ho about the hunt, was suddenly trying to slow the world down. Sam couldn’t understand why his brother was having such trouble adjusting when Dean’s life seemed to be all about rolling from one disaster to another. Sam had been so sure the answers he sought were just beyond his fingertips or around the next corner. He was so focused on his redemption for things he wasn’t responsible for that he would never have slowed down, let alone stop.

“Dean could never give up the hunt,” you whisper.

“I don’t think he’d be opposed to working from a home base, somewhere to return to when not on a hunt.”

“But the FBI...”

“Sarah, there will always be excuses.”

The need to be elsewhere damn near overwhelms you. Without meaning to, you take a step toward the door.

Bobby nods his understanding. “Heck of a storm heading this way. Don’t wander too far.”

You nod, then turn and make your escape.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

While you promised to stay close, you find yourself on the dirt road leading out of the Singer Salvage yard. You’ve always been fascinated by country roads. You suspect it’s because without the hint of civilization in the distance it’s easy to imagine yourself at the beginning of an adventure, with nothing more than the wind at your back and a promise of possibilities lying before you.

Heading north, you walk toward the oncoming storm. The hairs on your arms practically stand at attention in the charged atmosphere. The building ozone lets you know that the storm is going to be huge, which you find oddly appropriate. After all, why should you be the only one in turmoil? Mother Nature apparently has some issues to work out, just like you do.

Issues.

Now isn’t that a pleasant axiom?

Being on the road with Dean has been oddly liberating. You remember Sam would sometimes kvetch about Dean’s inappropriate behavior as if embarrassed on his brother’s behalf. Looking back, it’s apparent that Sam had forgotten what life was like on the road. It’s understandable really. He had had four years of ‘normal’ at Stanford and Sam had obviously thrown himself into the deep end of the pool when it came to conforming with societal norms.

How odd that you should find solace in moving away from those same norms. You learned rather quickly that you can’t hunt the supernatural and obey the rules of polite society. People don’t want to be confronted by things that go bump in the night. And Dean, God love him, does his best to let them continue to live with their ignorance, because he understands that once you’ve faced the night and had it stare back, your life will never be the same.

You wonder if Sam initially might have resented people a little for this attitude. After all, he was raised not only to confront the darkness, but to actively fight against it. Time and time again he had to put the welfare of others before his own hopes and dreams. After Stanford, you can understand how falling into that routine might grate.

You wish you had asked him more about his years at Stanford. Had he really been able to ignore the darkness? Had he convinced himself there was nothing to fear? Just how did he live with knowing what he did?

After he had taken up his father’s dropped gauntlet, he still, on occasion, bristled under Dean’s watchful eye, feeling as if Dean wasn’t letting him stand as an adult. And as much as you love Sam, or the memory of him, the line is so easy to blur now, you wish you could smack him upside the head.

Where Sam had felt confined by Dean’s shadow, you feel protected. Of course, it could be because you’d been on your own for so many years. Your father had once apologized for throwing himself into his business after your mother died. While his absence had made you sad, you couldn’t hold your loneliness against him. Work was his way of coping with his grief. While he made sure you had the best of everything, you had no one to share it with, although you never had a second’s doubt about what you meant to him.

Sam had grown up with nothing, but had had Dean, and you find yourself envying him that gift.

You can’t help but wonder what would have happened if Sam hadn’t been so adamant about racing toward his destiny? What if he’d allowed Dean to take a few weeks off so they could catch their breaths? Would you be standing here now?

In a better world, Sam would be riding beside his brother as they sped over the back roads of America; the windows rolled down and Metallica blaring over the speakers, and you’d be sending him spicy emails and dreaming about a future with him at your side.

Never in a hundred years did you dream that you’d be sitting in Sam’s place and that it would be Dean who owned your heart.

The sky above you rumbles ominously.

“That’s right. You tell ‘em, sister.”

The laugh that escapes you sounds so bitter you can’t help but cringe. Shouldn’t love be joyous? And yet the last thing you feel at the moment is happy.

Confused is more like it.

Just when had everything you felt for Dean morphed into something more? Skimming back through your memories you know there isn’t one single incident you can point to and say ‘aha.’ It’s more an accumulation of little things, negligible things. And yet...

Time had eroded all the barriers you used to keep around your heart, walls you had hoped Sam would be brave enough to scale. How ironic to discover they had simply tumbled one brick at a time for his brother.

Lightening cracks overhead and the resulting boom is damn near deafening.

Turning your face to the sky, you take a deep breath and let loose. “Yeah? Well, fuck you!”

Mother Nature apparently doesn’t appreciate your lack of manners because she rattles her saber with two more bursts.

“And fuck you too, Sam!”

The world is eerily silent and your words seem to echo over the fields as if the heavens stopped for a moment to listen to you rant. But instead of feeling mortified, your anger grows.

“You were supposed to love me, not leave me! I can understand if you felt like you couldn’t have a normal life with me. It would have hurt, but I would have survived. But how dare you leave Dean, you bastard!”

You jog to the top of the hill you’ve been steadily climbing. “What are we supposed to do, Sam? What are we supposed to do?”

For an instant, it feels like the world is holding its breath, but then the skies release a deluge of rain, instantly soaking everything in sight, including you.

“Perfect. Just perfect,” you mutter. But instead of running back to Bobby’s, you head deeper into the storm. After all, it’s not like you’re going to be dry any time soon.

As angry as you are with Sam at the moment, his last email pops up in your brain. He had spoken about his fear of losing Dean, who had been captured by a djinn. It turns out that genies don’t really grant wishes, they just make the wisher think they’ve been granted while the djinn drinks their blood. But the thing that struck Sam about the entire incident was how much Dean had wanted him to be happy.

In his delusion, their mother had never died, nor had Jesse, and Sam was in law school. Sam had been disturbed that he and Dean hadn’t gotten along with each other in Dean’s fantasy world, as if somehow Sam’s happiness and Dean’s sense of family couldn’t exist in the same universe.

But the thing that strikes you now, almost like a blow, was how much Sam wanted Dean to be happy, how much he wished for Dean to find what he was looking for in life, to find something meaningful beyond hunting. At the time, you thought the sentiment was endearing, but now it flashes above you like the lightening illuminating the heavens.

Sam would want Dean to be happy. He would want you to be happy. Even though he can’t walk on this plane of existence, you know he would totally give his blessing on this union. You know it down to the depths of your soul.

And finally, your tears fall.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

 _Sarah._

Blinking, you attempt to wipe the tears and rain from your face and straighten, but the storm makes it hard to see. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing in the middle of the road. You’re only conscious of the fact that you are standing in the middle of the road, not one of your brighter moves all things considering, so you totter to the side.

Every muscle in your body aches and you desperately want to lie down, after a long shower, preferably scalding hot. Of course that means you need to head back to Bobby’s. He’s going to start worrying about you soon, and that’s no way to repay his hospitality.

While you’ve never been overly vain, you’re not completely unhappy about the rain, which is silly considering how miserable you feel at the moment. But, at least, the downpour should make it impossible for anyone to tell you’ve been crying.

“God damn it, Sarah!”

Turning, you spot a figure standing on the crest of the hill.

Dean.

While you can’t see his facial features, you can tell he’s not happy by the way his shoulders are hunched around his ears. Your heart wants to race to him, but your brain is suggesting rather strenuously that it might be a good time to head deeper into the storm.

Caught between the two voices, you find yourself unable to move.

“Of all the...I swear...I can’t believe you don’t know enough to come out of the rain.” You can hear Dean muttering as he stalks toward you and still you can’t move. “I swear once I get my hands on you...”

And then, as if the heavens decide it’s time to intervene, a bolt of lightening chars the ground between you.

“Dean!” Your cry rips from throat, but you can’t hear it or him over the ringing in your ears. Even though you’re sure your eyes are open, the lightening has left you blind, but instead of darkness, all you see is light.

You stumble forward, toward where you think he was standing, screaming his name over and over again, because you can’t lose him now that you’ve finally accepted the fact you love him. Surely, God wouldn’t be so cruel as to take both Winchesters away from you.

You find Dean by literally tripping over him. If it weren’t for the rain, you’d probably be a bloody mess at the moment, but the ground squishes under your knees and you can feel, more than hear, the pop your hands make as you pull them out of the mud. Turning back to his supine form, you run your hands over his body, desperately looking for any sign of life.

“What in the hell are you doing out here? Why couldn’t you have just stayed inside? If you...you can’t...what am I going to do? You know I can’t live without you anymore, you bastard.” Your hands are too cold to determine whether or not he has a heartbeat or not. “Damn it, Dean. I can’t...I can’t. I just can’t. I need you, damn it. I need my knight in shining armor. I need my best friend. I need--”

His lips on yours cut off your desperate words. His cold muddy hands frame your face even as his tongue invades your mouth. You sob in relief, your hands clenching in his shirt. He calms you by kissing you again and again. Possessive kisses. Sweet kisses. Warm kisses filled with life. Finally, he just wraps his arms around you and holds you tight.

You can feel his chest rumbling and know he’s saying something.

“I can’t hear you.”

You feel his chest rumble again, almost like a laugh. After a moment, his body tenses and he begins to stand. You cling to him, afraid you won’t be able to find him again if you get separated. His arms wrap around you as he pulls you to your feet. He tucks you under his arm and guides you back toward Bobby’s.

Bobby’s.

“Oh, man,” you whisper. “I’m in so much trouble.”

His chest vibrates again, no doubt telling you that you’re probably right. Lord knows you’ll probably deserve whatever punishment Bobby decides to dish out. You turn into Dean’s body and hold him tight. He stops and presses a kiss to your forehead and you know, that no matter what, he’ll be standing by your side, which warms you enough to almost feel your fingers.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

Opening your eyes, you’re grateful to discover that your sight has returned. You say a quick prayer of thanks and then focus on your surroundings. Even before you’re able to take in the room, which you’re pretty sure is the one Bobby set aside for you, you notice a pair of green eyes silently watching you.

Dean.

You give him a tentative smile, unsure of what would be an appropriate greeting given all the recent revelations you’ve had.

“It’s your own damn fault,” he tells you in a voice gruff with emotion.

You tisk and curl your lip in disagreement, although you have no idea what he’s talking about, but whatever it is, you’re not accepting the blame until you get more information. “Are we grounded?”

He snorts once then gives the side of your hip a playful swat.

“You might be. Me, I’m golden.”

Unable to think of a proper response, you blow a raspberry at him, making him grin.

There are so many questions you want to ask, but you find yourself unable to frame them in your mind, let alone speak them out loud. Dean, however, comes to the rescue as he always has.

“What would change?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

You shrug, feeling a little like a petulant teenager, wondering how this situation came to be your fault.

“Other than the sex.” He bestows you with a cocky grin, but it disappears as quickly as it came. There’s such rawness in his eyes, that you find yourself tracing the side of his face with your fingertips, trying to soothe away his pain.

You know you’re not alone in your feelings, but you’re beginning to wonder how long he may have been alone with his. “How long?”

“Truthfully?”

You nod.

“I think, maybe, a little after the tree thing with the kids.”

Of all the answers he could have given you, that was not what you expected. “But you still tried--”

“Yeah, I know.” While his answer is curt, his voice is not.

Looking back, all his daily little touches take on new meaning. His endearments, the kisses he’s always bestowed on your forehead, the times he told you he loved you...

God, you really are dense.

“Yeah, you are.” He snickers, and you have to wonder if you had accidentally spoke out loud, but you know you hadn’t. He’s just able to read you that well.

“How long would you have let me blithely--”

He shrugs, and you know that this was something you had to discover on your own. If he had tried to push the issue, you might have run for the hills. Hell, figuring it out on your own sent you out to confront a storm, which is apparently still raging outside if the thunder cracking outside the window is any indication.

You take a moment and look at the crinkles around his eyes, and the gray hairs sprouting in his sideburns and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look more beautiful than he does in this instant. You are slightly ashamed by how long you clung to your long dead dreams, especially considering that you were ignoring the reality in which you’d been living, and wonder why he puts up with you.

But instead of beating yourself up, you find yourself okay with the time it took you to reach this place with him. It’s taken both of you time to learn how to let go of Sam, to learn to live for each other instead of for a memory.

Running your hand down Dean’s cheek, you drop it onto his shoulder, dancing it down the length of his arm until you get to his hand. You then take his fingers in yours and lift his hand to your mouth and brush your mouth gently over his knuckles. His face softens and you find yourself mesmerized by his lips as they slowly move toward you.

The tenderness with which he kisses you damn near takes your breath away. This man has become your light in a world of darkness. He has become your purpose, your heart, and your soul. You know that your future will continue to be one of fighting the good fight against the dark, of eluding law officials and cross country trips in dingy motels that would make Kerouac weep, and you can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else but by this man’s side, facing all things great and small.

“What?” he asks when he feels you smile into the kiss.

You run a finger down his chin and onto his chest, then give him a sassy grin. “So? Sex, huh?”


End file.
